



PRESENTED BY 




MENCKEN 



ah 



ms BOOK 



^ 



\Hi 



DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 

DEAD LETTERS 



" This is one of those rare and delightful books, 
in which the reader is invited to smile rather than 
to laugh, and to think even when he is most 
amused." — The Globe. 

" Many a tired mind will find in this volume 
refreshing stimulus." — The Observer. 

"Surely the case, the irony, and the mere 
humour of this will be very grateful to any mind 
that values those gifts." — The Outlook. 

"Altogether stimulating and delightful."— 7"^^ 
Daily Express. 



HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
Boston. 



DIMINUTIVE 
DRAMAS 



BY 

MAURICE BARING 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

1911 



PRgooB 



These " Diminutive Dramas " first appeared in 
the Morning Post and are reprinted here by the 
courtesy of the Editor. 



Gift 
H. L. Mencken, 
4kH 1 8 192S 



i 

i 



DEDICATED 

TO 

A. I. 

WHOSE UNWRITTEN CHRONICLES ARE BETTER THAN BOOKS 

AND 

WHOSE UNPREMEDITATED SUGGESTION HITS A TARGET 

BEYOND THE REACH OF ARTISTS 

AND THE KEN OF CRITICS 



CONTENTS 



I. Catherine Parr 






PAOB 
I 


2. The Drawback 






12 


3. Pious ^neas . 






23 


4. The Death of Alexander 






33 


5. The Greek Vase 






41 


6. The Fatal Rubber . 






51 


7. The Rehearsal 






62 


8. The Blue Harlequin 






. ^6 


9. The Member for Literature 






88 


10. Caligula's Picnic 






98 


11. The Aulis Difficulty 






108 


12. Don Juan's Failure 






119 


13. Calpurnia's Dinner-Party 






129 


14. Lucullus's Dinner-Party 






138 


15. The Stoic's Daughter 






. 149 



Vlll 



DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS 



16. After Euripides' " Electra " . 

17. Jason and Medea 

18. King Alfred and the Neat-Herd 

19. Rosamund and Eleanor 

20. Ariadne in Naxos . 

21. Velasquez and the " Venus " , 

22. Xantippe and Socrates 



I'AOE 
160 



189 
198 
207 
216 



I 

CATHERINE PARR 

OR 

ALEXANDER'S HORSE 

Scene. — London. Breakfast chamber in the Palace. 
King Henry VHI. and Catherine Parr are 
discovered sitting opposite to each other at the 
breakfast table. The King has just cracked a 
boiled egg. 

King Henry. My egg's raw. It really is too 
bad. 

Catherine. Yesterday you complained of their 
being hard. 

King Henry. And so they were. I don't 
want a hard egg and I don't want a raw &gg. I 
want them to be cooked just right. 

Catherine. You are very difficult to please. 
The Qgg was in boiling water for three minutes 
and a half. I boiled it myself. But give it me. 
I like them like that. I will boil you another. 



2 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS i 

King Henry. No, it's too late now. But it 
is a fact that you have no idea how to boil an 
egg. I wish you'd let them do them in the kitchen. 
Catherine. If they're done in the kitchen you 
complain because they're not here when you come 
down, and if they are here, you say they're cold. 

King Henry. I never say anything of the 
kind. The cook boils eggs beautifully. 

Catherine. She shall boil them to-morrow. 
King Henry. One would have thought that 
a woman of your experience might at least know 
how to boil an egg. I hate a watery egg. {Pen- 
sively) Poor dear Katie used to boil eggs 
beautifully. 

Catherine. Do you mean Catherine Howard 
or Katharine of Aragon ? 

King Henry. I was alluding to poor, dear, 
misguided Katie Howard. Katharine of Aragon 
never was my wife. The marriage was not valid. 

Catherine. Well, Catherine Howard ought 
to have known how to boil eggs, considering her 
mother was a kitchenmaid. 

King Henry. That is utterly untrue. Her 
mother was a Rockford. 

Catherine. You're thinking of Anne Bullen. 
King Henry. Yes, yes, to be sure, Katie's 
mother was a Somerset. 



I CATHERINE PARR 3 

Catherine. You're thinking of Jane Seymour. 

King Henry. Not at all. Jane Seymour was 
a sister of Somerset's. 

Catherine. All I know is that Catherine 
Howard's mother was a kitchenmaid. And I think 
it's very unkind of you to throw her up at me. 
I suppose you mean that you wish she were 
alive, and that you loved her better than you love 
me. 

King Henry. I never said anything of the 
kind. All I said was that she knew how to boil 

eggs. 

Catherine. You clearly meant to say that she 
had all the qualities which I lack. 

King Henry. You are most unfair. I never 
meant to hint at any such thing. All I said was 
that I hate a watery egg, and my egg this morning 
was raw. 

Catherine (rising and going to the door in a 
temper). Well, the best thing you can do is to get 
rid of me, and to marry some one who knows how 
to boil an egg. 

King Henry. Catherine, come back ! I really 
didn't mean to offend you. You know how to boil 
eggs very well. 

Catherine [sitting down). One takes an end- 
less amount of trouble, and that's all the thanks one 



4 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS i 

gets. Don't think that I shall ever boil your eggs 
for you again, because I shan't. 

King Henry. I was thinking we might have a 
little music this morning. I have composed a new 
ballad which I should like to try over with you. 
It's for viol and lute and voice. We might try it. 

Catherine. I'm not sure if I have time. 
What is it called ? 

King Henry. It's called "The Triumph of 
Love," and it begins : 

Come list to Alexander's deed, 
Great Jove's immortal son, 
Who, riding on a snow-white steed. 
To Babylon did come. 

Catherine. "Son" doesn't rhyme with "come." 

King Henry. It's not meant to. It's assonance. 

Catherine. Do you mean Alexander the Great ? 

King Henry. Yes, of course. 

Catherine. The only thing is, his horse was 
black. 

King Henry. No, my dear, You're mistaken ; 
his horse was white. 

Catherine. Black — black as jet. 

King Henry. But I know for a fact it was 
white. 

Catherine. Alexander's horse was black. 
Everybody knows it was black. 



I CATHERINE PARR 5 

King Henry. It was white. You can ask any 
one you like. 

Catherine. It was black. He was famous for 
his black horse. There are hundreds of pictures ot 
him on his hlack horse — my father has got one. 

King Henry. Then the painter made a mis- 
take. Plutarch, Xenophon, Aristotle all mention 
his white horse. 

Catherine. Black. 

King Henry. But, my dear, how obstinate 
you are ! I know it is white 

Catherine. Black, ^^^/-black. 

King Henry. Have you read Xenophon ? 

Catherine. You are thinking of something 
else. Even when we were children my father 
always showed us the picture of Alexander's hlack 
horse. 

King Henry. Well, I can easily prove it to 
you. There's a Plutarch here in the bookcase. 
{He goes to the bookcase and takes out a book.) 

Catherine. I remember it particularly well 
because my brother had a black horse and we 
called it " Bucephalus," after Alexander's black horse. 

King Henry [turning over the leaves of the book). 
If it had been black it would never have been called 
Bucephalus — it would be absurd to call a black 
horse Bucephalus. 



6 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS i 

Catherine. Not so absurd as calling a white 
horse Bucephalus. 

King Henry. He would never have chosen a 
black horse. He was superstitious 

Catherine. Just because you're superstitious 
and believe in Saints, and worship images, you think 
every one else is. As a matter of fact, he chose a 
black horse on purpose to show he didn't care a pin 
about superstitions 

King Henry. Here it is — " x'^^^'^'^s ea/at Kal 
KofiiSrj Suo-x/07/o-Tos " — " The horse was wild and 
extremely difficult to manage." In fact, he had all 
the characteristics of the white Thessalian horses 
of that day. 

Catherine. But it doesn't say it was white. 
And Thessalian horses are famous for being 
black. 

King Henry. You really are too obstinate for 
words. I will find you the proof in Xenophon. It 
is distinctly stated that the horse was white. It is 
an historical fact. Nobody has ever disputed it. 

Catherine. But Plutarch, you see, practically 
says it was black. 

King Henry. Plutarch says nothing of the 
kind. Besides, I now remember talking about this 
with Wolsey, who was an excellent scholar. I 
distinctly remember his saying one day: "As white 



I CATHERINE PARR 7 

as Bucephalus." It's quite a common phrase among 
scholars. 

Catherine. He must have said "As black as 
Bucephalus." 

King Henry. Of course, if you mean to say 
I tell lies 

Catherine. I don't mean that you tell lies, 
but you are mistaken — that's all. 

King Henry. But I tell you that there is no 
mistake possible. I know it as well as I know my 
own name. 

Catherine. Your memory plays you tricks. 
Just now you couldn't remember Catherine Howard's 
mother's name. 

King Henry. That's nothing to do with it. 
Besides, I did remember it. I made a slip, that's 
all. But this is an historical fact which I've known 
all my life. 

Catherine. I quite understand your memory 
failing you. You have so many names to re- 
member. I expect you were confusing Alexander's 
black horse with King Alfred's white horse — 
the white horse of Wantage. 

King Henry. Good gracious ! If you had a 
smattering of education you wouldn't say such 
things ! It comes of having no reHgion and no 
education, and of not knowing Latin. A Lutheran 



8 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS i 

education is worse than none. Even Anne of 
Cleves knew Latin. 

Catherine. Thank heavens, I don't know 
Latin ! Stupid, superstitious language, fit only for 
bigots and monks ! 

King Henry. I suppose you mean I am a 
bigot. 

Catherine. You can turn what one says into 
meaning anything you like. As a matter of fact, 
all I said was that the horse was black. 

King Henry. I'd rather be a bigot than a 
Lutheran heretic. 

Catherine. You know you're wrong and you 
try to escape the point. That's just like a Tudor. 
No Tudor could ever listen to reason. 

King Henry. I must ask you not to insult my 
family. 

Catherine. You've insulted mine, which is a 
far older one. My family has no blood on its 
escutcheon. 

King Henry. I won't stand this any longer. 
{He gets up^ opens the door^ and calls) Denny, 
Butts, Page, who is there ? 

Enter a Page 

Page. Your Majesty. 

King Henry. Go and tell the Lord Chamber- 



I CATHERINE PARR 9 

lain to make the necessary arrangements for trans- 
porting the Ex-Queen to the Tower. 

Page {puzzled). Yes, your Majesty. Does 
your Majesty mean the late Queen's remains ? 

King Henry. I said the ^'^^-Queen, you stupid 
boy — Queen Catherine Parr. 

Page. Yes, your Majesty. 

King Henry. And tell him to give orders to 
the Governor of the Tow^er to have everything 
ready for the Ex-Queen's execution. 

Page. Is the same ceremonial to be observed as 
in the case of Queen Catherine How^ard, your 
Majesty ? 

King Henry. Yes j only there need only be 
one roll of drums instead of two — at the end. [The 
Page goes to the door.) And on the way ask Dr. 
Butts whether Alexander the Great's horse was 
black or white. 

Catherine. It was black. {The Page bows and 
goes out.) Well, since I'm to be executed I daresay 
you will allow me to go and pack up my things. 
By the way, you left your lute in my sitting-room 
yesterday. I will bring it down. 

King Henry. Wait a minute, there's no 
hurry. 

Catherine. I beg your pardon, I have very 
little time, and a great many letters to write. 



10 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS i 

King Henry {hesitating). And I wanted to 
have some music. 

Catherine. You don't expect me to accom- 
pany you now, I suppose ? You had better find 
some one else. I have got other things to think 
about during my last moments on earth. 

King Henry [laughing uneasily). I was only 
joking, of course, my dear. You don't mean to say 
you took it seriously. 

Catherine. I am afraid I don't appreciate that 
kind of joke. 

King Henry. Come, come ; let bygones be 
bygones, and let us have some music. I want to 
play you my ballad. 

Enter the Page 

Page. If you please, your Majesty, I can't find 
the Lord Chamberlain, and Dr. Butts says your 
Majesty was quite correct as to the colour of 
Alexander the Great's horse. 

King Henry [beaming). Very good , you can 
go. You need not deliver the message to the Lord 
Chamberlain. [The Page bows and retires.) And 
now, my dear, we'll go and play. You see I knew 
I was right. 

\_The King opens the door with a bow. 

Catherine. It was black, all the same. 



I CATHERINE PARR ii 

King Henry [indulgently^ as if speaking to a 
child). Yes, yes, my dear, of course it was black, 
but let's go and have some music. 

[ They go out. 

Curtain. 



II 

THE DRAWBACK 

Scene. — A corner in Kensington Gardens. A 
summer evening. Discovered^ sitting on a seat^ a 
girl^ aged 21 ^pretty and neat^ and a good-looking 
young man^ aged 27, dressed in a top hat and 
a black morning coat. 

He. But are you quite sure you will not 
change your mind ? 

She. I never change my mind once it is made 
up. I often take a very long time to make up my 
mind, but once I've made it up I never change. 
Now my sister Alice is quite different. She never 
knows her mind from one minute to the other. 

He. But your father 

She. Papa always does what I want. Besides, 

directly he knows you it will be all right. And 

when he knows that you're at the Bar he will be 

delighted. He always wanted me to marry a 

12 



II THE DRAWBACK 13 

lawyer. You see Papa was at the Bar in his young 
days — I daresay your father was too. 

He [embarrassed). No, yes — I mean no. That's 
to say he is in a way indirectly connected with the 
Bar ; but my father's principal hobby is playing on 
the harp. He gives himself up almost entirely to 
that now. 

She. I see. 

He. Have you told your father yet ? 

She. You told me I wasn't to until I'd seen 
you again. 

He. Yes, of course. I thought you might 
have changed your mind. 

She. As if that were likely. 

He. And then, if you remember, I told you 
when I, when you, when we settled everything 
that there was a — er — drawback. 

She. As if any drawback could possibly make 
any difference. 

He. I thought it might. 

She. You mean to say that it is something 
which might make me wish to change my 
mind ? 

He. Exactly. 

She. That shows you know me very little — but 
what is it ? 

He. You see it's a kind of confession. 



14 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS ii 

She. I know what it is ; you want to tell me 
you once loved some one else. 

He. No, not that, I swear I never did. I may 
have thought once or twice that I was in love, but 
until I met you I never knew what love, what real 
love, was. 

She. And those other times when you thought 
you were in love — were there many of them ? 

He. It only happened twice ; that's to say 
three times, only the third time didn't count. 

She. And the first time, who was she ? 

He. I was quite young, only a boy. She was 
a girl in an A.B.C. shop. 

She. Was she pretty ? 

He. Not exactly. 

She. Did you propose to her ? 

He. Yes, but she refused. 

She. And that's all that happened ? 

He. That's all. 

She. And the second time ? 

He. It was the parson's daughter down in the 
country. 

She. Did you make love to her ? 

He. No, not really, of course, but we were friends. 

She. Did you kiss her ? 

He. Only once, and that was by accident. 
But it was all years ago. 



II THE DRAWBACK 15 

She. How many years ago ? 

He. Let me see ; two, no, no, it must have 
been four years ago. Pm not sure it wasn't five. 
She married the curate. 

She. And the third time? 

He. Oh ! that was nothing. 

She. Who was she ? 

He. She was an artist — a singer. 

She. a concert singer ? 

He. Almost ; that's to say she wanted to be 
one. She sang in a music-hall. 

She. Oh ! 

He. Only a serious turn. She wasn't dressed 
up or anything. She sang "The Lost Chord" 
and songs like that. She was called " The New 
Zealand Nightingale." 

She. And you knew her ? 

He. Very slightly. I had tea with her once 
or twice. And then she went away. 

She. Back to New Zealand ? 

He. Yes, back to New Zealand. 

She. Now I've made you confess everything. 
Aren't you glad you've got it off your mind ? I 
don't mind a bit, and I like you for being so honest. 

He. But it's not that at all. It's nothing to 
do with me. 

She. Then who has it got to do with ? 



i6 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS ii 

He. My father. 

She. You mean he won't approve of me ? 

He. Of course I don't mean that. He'd simply 
love you. 

She. He's going to marry again. 

He. No, it's not that. 

She. He doesn't want you to marry. 

He. No, it's nothing to do with me. 

She. Then I don't understand. 

He. It's something to do with him. 

She. He's consumptive. 

He. No ; his health is excellent. 

She. He's lost his money. 

He. No ; he's very well ofF. You see it's 
something to do with his social position. A matter 
of — I don't quite know how to put it. 

She. But, Georgie, you don't think I'm such a 
snob as to care twopence for social position and 
conventions of that kind ? Your father is your 
father — that's all that matters, isn't it ? 

He. I know, I know, but there are prejudices. 

She. Is it something your father's done ? Has 
he been in the Bankruptcy Court ? I wouldn't 
care a pin. 

He. No, it's nothing he's done. It's some- 
thing he is. 

She. He's a Socialist ! 



II THE DRAWBACK 17 

He. No. 

She. Is he a Roman Catholic ? 

He. Oh no ! He's Church of England. 

She. I know ; he's a Liberal. 

He. No ; he says the Liberals are just as bad as 
the Conservatives. 

She. Then he's a Little Englander. 

He. On the contrary ; he's outside politics. 
He belongs to no party. 

She. He's a foreigner — by birth, I mean. 

He. Not at all. 

She. He's not a Mormon ? 

He. No. It's nothing to do with politics or 
religion or that kind of thing. It's his profession. 

She. His profession ! But I thought — as if I 
cared about his profession ! 

He. But you might — there are some profes- 
sions 

She. You see, I know he's honest. 

He. Oh ! you needn't have any fear. He's 
perfectly honest, respectable, and respected. 

She. Then what is it ? 

He. I'd rather you guessed it. 

She. How absurd you are ! I know what it 
is ; he's somebody's agent. 

He. No. 

She, Then he's a schoolmaster. 

c 



1 8 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS ii 

He. No. 

She {tentatively). Of course, I know he was 

never in trade ? 

He. No, never. He had nothing to do 
with it. 

She. Is he on the stage ? 

- He. No ; he disapproves of actors. 

She. He's a Quaker. 

He. I told you it's nothing to do with religion. 

She. Then, he's a photographer. Some photo- 
graphers almost count as artists. 

He. No. 

She. Then it is something to do with art. 

He. His profession certainly needs art and 
skill. 

She. He's not a conjurer ? 

He. Conjurers are scarcely respectable. 

She. I know, of course. He's a jockey. 

He. No. 

She. a bookmaker. 

He. No. 

She. a veterinary surgeon. 

He. No. 

She. Does he ever give lessons ? 

He. Only to his assistants, whom he's training. 

She. He's a prize-fighter. 

He. Oh no ! 



II THE DRAWBACK 19 

She. He's an Art-dressmaker. 

He. No. You see it's something some people 
might mind. 

She. What can it be ? A dentist. 

He. No. 

She. How stupid of me. He's a literary man. 

He. He's never written a line. 

She. But you told me. I remember now. He 
plays the harp. He's something musical ; but 
nobody could mind that. He's a dancing-master. 

He. No. 

She. A commercial traveller. 

He. No. 

She. Of course not ; it's something to do with 
art. But what could one mind ? 

He. Not exactly art. It's more skill. 

She. Is he a chiropodist ? 

He. No. 

She. Or a Swedish masseur ? 

He. Nothing like it. 

She. Is it anything to do with officials ? 

He. Yes, in a way. 

She. Then I've guessed. He's a detective. 

He. No. 

She. He's in the Secret Service. 

He. No. 

She. It's something to do with the police. 



20 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS ii 



He. 


Not exactly. 




She. 


With prisons. 




He. 


In a way. 




She. 


He's a prison inspector. 




He. 


No. 




She. 


A prison chaplain. 




He. 


No ; he's not in Orders. 




She. 


The prison doctor who has to 


feed the 


SufFragettes. 




He. 


No. 




She. 


I've guessed. He's a keeper in 


a lunatic 


asylum. 






He. 


You're getting cold again. 




She. 


Then it's something to do with 


prisons ? 


He. 


Yes. 




She. 


He's a warder. 




He. 


No. 




She. 


I don't know who else is in 


a prison, 


except the prisoners. 




He. 


He doesn't live in the prison. 




She. 


But he goes there sometimes ? 




He. 


Yes. 




She. 


I give it up. 




He. 


His duty is a disagreeable one, 


but some 


one has 


to do it. 




She. 


He's the man who has to 


taste the 


prisoners'food. 





II THE DRAWBACK 21 

He. I didn't know there was such a person. 
She. You must tell me. I'll never guess. 

He [blurting it out). Well, you see, he's the 
hangman. 

[A Pause, 

She. You mean he 

He. Yes, he 

She. Oh, I see. 

He. Some people might mind this. He's 
going to retire very soon — on a pension. 

She. Yes ? 

He. And, of course, he very seldom 

She. Yes, I suppose 

He. It's all quite private, of course. 

She. Yes, of course. 

\_A Pause. 

[Looking at her watch) Good gracious ! I shall 
be late for dinner. It's nearly seven o'clock. I 
must fly. I was late yesterday. 

He. Shall I — shall we meet to-morrow ? 

She. No, not to-morrow. I'm busy all to- 
morrow. 

He. Perhaps the day after. 

She. Perhaps I had better tell you at once 
what I was going to write to you. 

He. You think the drawback 

She [indignantly), I wasn't thinking of that. 



22 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS ii 

But I do think you ought to have told me directly 
about those others. 

He. What others ? 

She. Those women — the A. B.C. shop, the 
clergyman's daughter, and that music-hall singer. 

He. But you said you didn't mind. 

She. I minded too much to speak about it. A 
music-hall singer ! The New Zealand Night- 
ingale ! Oh ! to think that you, that I Oh ! 

the shame of it. 

He. But 

She. There's no but. You've grossly deceived 
me. You played with my feelings. You led me 
on. You trifled with me. You've treated me 
scandalously. You've broken my heart. You've 
ruined my Hfe. 

He. But let me say one word. 

She. Not one word. A girl in an A.B.C. 
shop ! A clergyman's daughter ! and a music- 
hall singer ! 

He. You really mean 

She. I've heard quite enough. Thank you, 
Mr. Belleville. Please to understand that our 
acquaintance is at an end. Good evening. {She 
bows and walks away,) 

Curtain. 



Ill 

PIOUS iENEAS 

Scene. — A room in Dido's Palace at Carthage, 
Discovered \ ^Eneas, wearing a cloak ofTyrian 
purple ; Serestus and Sergestus. 

^NEAS {in a sharp military tone). Is every- 
thing ready ? 

Serestus. Aye, aye, sir. 

^NEAS. No leave for either watches to-night. 
We shall probably go to sea to-morrow morning at 
four. I'll let you know later. 
Serestus. Aye, aye, sir. 

^NEAS. That's all. Don't any of you get 
talking, and you, Sergestus, report seven minutes to 
noon to me. 

Sergestus. Aye, aye, sir. 
[Sergestus and Serestus salute and go out L, 
[-^NEAS unrolls a chart, 
[Dido enters through a curtain C. ^Eneas 
hastily conceals the chart. 
Dido {cheerfully). Well ? 
23 



24 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS iii 

^NEAS. Good morning. 

Dido. Are you busy ? If so I won't disturb you. 

i^NEAS. No, no, Vm not at all busy. 

Dido. I thought you were reading something 
when I came in. 

i^NEAS. I was only looking through some 
accounts. 

Dido. Aren't you cold in this room ? Wouldn't 
you like a fire ? 

^Eneas. No, thank you. I don't feel the cold. 

Dido. It's blowing so hard to-day. I've been 
for a walk. 

^NEAS. Oh, is it ? I haven't been out this 
morning. 

Dido. I went for quite a long walk, past the 
quays. 

i^NEAS. Do you think that was wise ? You 
ought to be careful in this cold weather. 

Dido. I Hke the cold. It reminds me of the 
day you came. Do you remember how cold you 
all were ? 

i^NEAS. Yes. 

Dido. I'm sure you're busy. I'm sure I'm dis- 
turbing you. 

i^NEAs. Not in the least, I promise you. 
Dido. JEnezs. 
tEneas. Well ? 



Ill PIOUS ^NEAS 25 

Dido. I've guessed ! 

^NEAS {uneasy and alarmed). What ? I don't 
understand. 

Dido {smiling). Your little surprise. 

i^NEAS. What surprise ? 

Dido. I meant not to say, but I can't help it. 
I found it out this morning by accident. I think 
it's too dear of you to take all this trouble for me, 
and to send a whole fleet to Tyre to bring me back 
that purple dye which you promised me — the same 
colour as your cloak, which / gave you. I meant 
to pretend I didn't know, but I am so touched I 
can't help it. 

-/Eneas. Oh ! the expedition to Tyre. Yes, I 
was thinking 

Dido. And when do they start ? 

iENEAS. It isn't quite settled. It depends. 

Dido. Couldn't we go a part of the way with 
them ? 

^Eneas. No, I'm afraid that's quite out of the 
question. The time of year, you see, is so bad. 
I don't think you would enjoy it at all. It's very 
cold and the sea will be rough. 

Dido. I love a rough sea. Couldn't we go as 
far as Sicily with them ? They're going to stop there. 

i^NEAS. I don't think you could leave Carth- 
age just at this moment, could you ? 



26 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS iii 

Dido. No, that's true. We couldn't very 
well leave Carthage just now, could we ? Be- 
cause King larbas has sent another threatening 
message. 

^Eneas. Again ? 

Dido. Yes ; he threatens to attack Carthage 
at once. He cannot get over the fact that we 
really are married, and that I have a brave, dear, 
faithful, darling husband to love and protect me for 
ever and ever. 

i^NEAS. It certainly is most awkward. 

Dido. What ? What does it matter to us 
what he says and does? 

^NEAS. Well, the fact is that I shall probably 
have to go with the fleet. 

Dido. Then I'll come with you. 

i^NEAS. My dear Elissa, that's impossible. 

Dido. You don't mean to say that you're 
going to leave me — your wife — alone and unpro- 
tected, to face the invasion of a powerful, savage, 
and angry king when there is absolutely no necessity 
for your going at all ? 

i^NEAS. I can't possibly leave the fleet to 
Palinurus — our only pilot. Quite between our- 
selves he doesn't know how to navigate — he once 
mistook the Charybdis beacon for a star ... it 
was after supper. . . . 



Ill PIOUS ^NEAS 27 

Dido. Dearest, I quite understand. You must 
put off the expedition. I promise you not to mind. 
I don't really want the purple dye. We'll wait till 
the season is more propitious. It was most dear of 
you to think of it. 

-/Eneas. But I'm afraid it can't be put off. 

Dido. Why ? 

^NEAS. Well, you see I have absolutely pro- 
mised — I have definitely pledged myself — I have 
given my word of honour to visit my brother Eryx 
in Sicily. 

Dido. You can put that off until the spring. 

i^NEAS. I'm afraid it would be too late then. 
You see the whole matter is most complicated. 
Eryx expects me. I promised him to go, and if I 
don't go now 

Dido. What will happen ? 

^NEAS {vaguely). He won't be there. 

Dido. Why ? Is he going away ? 

^NEAS. And then there's another matter which 
is still more important. I simply must visit my 
father's tomb in Sicily. 

Dido. You might have thought of that before. 

^NEAS. I have constantly — but I put it off. 

Dido. As you have put it off so long already, 
you may just as well put it off a little longer. 

^Eneas. Yes, but there's Jove. 



28 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS iii 

Dido. What has Jove got to do with it ? 

i^NEAS. He wishes me to go. He is anxious 
that I should go to Sicily and {pauses) to Italy. 

Dido. Why to Italy? 

tEneas. It's entirely for my boy's sake, 
Ascanius ... to establish a home for him. 

Dido. And how long will you stay there ? 

a^NEAS. It depends how things turn out. 

Dido. A month ? 

^Eneas. I'm afraid it will be a little longer than 
that. 

Dido. Six weeks ? 

^Eneas. You see it all depends on Jove. 

Dido. I ask you as a favour to put ofF the 
whole thing until the spring. 

-/Eneas. You know I would do anything you 
ask me, but I'm afraid I can't do that. I would if I 
could, but I can't. 

Dido. You mean you are determined to go to 
Italy. 

iE^NEAS. It's the last thing I wish to do per- 
sonally, but Jove 

Dido. Please leave Jove out of the discussion. 

^Eneas. After all I must go there some time or 
other. 

Dido. You are tired of me. 

iENEAS. How can you say such a thing ? 



Ill PIOUS .ENEAS 



29 



Dido. I knew it at once. You are going to 
Italy, and you're never coming back. 

i^NEAS. Of course I shall come back some time. 

Dido {violently). Then it's true ! I knew you 
were tired of me ! I've known it for a long time ; 
but I never thought you could be so despicably 
mean as to try and go away without saying a word. 

.^NEAS. But I never dreamt 

Dido. You build a fleet on the sly, in the 
middle of winter, to go to a strange country where 
you have no ties. 

^NEAs. I beg your pardon, there's my 
brother 

Dido. When wind and weather are at their 
worst, simply and solely to get away from me — — 

i^NEAS. But I swear 

Dido. Oh ! you don't expect me to beHeve for 
a moment all that nonsense about Jove. If you 
wanted to stay you wouldn't think twice about 
Jove. You don't care a pin what may happen to 
me. You have set everybody against me ; even my 
relations, my brother, all the Numidians, and the 
whole of Libya. You've ruined my reputation and 
given me over to my enemies, and then you put it 
all upon Jove. 

.Eneas. I beg you to listen, Elissa. I had 
never for a moment meant to conceal my journey. 



30 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS iii 

Dido. Then why tell all those silly lies about 
Tyre and the purple dye ? 

^NEAS. I never said a word about Tyre and 
the purple dye. It was you. 

Dido. How can you tell such lies ? When I 
asked you if the fleet was going to Tyre you 
distinctly said Yes. 

^NEAS. What I did say was that I was obliged 
to go to Sicily to visit my father's tomb, and that is 
the simple truth. You can't expect me to wish 
the whole world to think me unfilial ! As it is, I 
haven't had a night's rest for months. My father's 
ghost appears to me every night. 

Dido. You expect me 

JE'SEAS, Please let me finish. And only 
yesterday I received a direct command from Jove, 
saying I was to go to Italy at once and found a 
kingdom there. Of course, if this only concerned 
myself I shouldn't care, but there's my son Ascanius 
to be thought of. I have no right to defraud him 
of his kingdom. If it were a question of inclination 
of course I should stay here, and Italy's the last place 
I want to go to. If I went anywhere I should go to 
Troy ; but Jove has made my duty plain, and after 
all a man must do his duty. 

Dido. Your duty ! And I suppose it was a 
part of your duty to deceive me, to ruin me, to stir 



Ill PIOUS .ENEAS 31 

up enemies against me, and then to leave me to 
them defenceless ! Me, your wife ! 

^NEAS {angrily). I must point out that I 
warned you at the time that our marriage was in 
no sense legal or valid — it could never be recognised 
as an alliance. 

Dido {calmly). You are quite right. It is 
entirely my fault. I thought you were a man of 
honour. I believed your word. I thought you 
were a man. I was mistaken. You were only a 
Trojan. I found you shipwrecked, an outcast, 
starving, helpless, at death's door. I saved your 
fleet. I rescued your comrades from death. I 
saved you from destruction. And this is my reward. 
The Greeks were right when they burned Troy to 
the ground, killed your men and made your women 
into slaves. They were right to spare you, because 
you are not a man. Your place is with the menials. 
Please don't think I shall prevent you going to 
Italy. Don't imagine for a moment I am going 
to argue with you. By all means go and found a 
kingdom. I trust you will enjoy it and that it will 
turn out better than Troy. I am sure you know 
best, and I am sure you know what is best, and I 
am sure you are right. Don't imagine that I mind, 
or that I shall miss you, for I shan't. I am not the 
least annoyed at your going, I am only surprised 



32 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS iii 

and vexed to find that a man whom I thought was 
honourable, and truthful, and brave should turn 
out to be dishonourable, a liar, a coward — and a 
mean coward. I am angry with myself that I 
should have made such a mistake about a man, and 
that you, by your foolish, silly, transparent lies and 
shuffling should have shown me what a poor opinion 
you have of me. I wish you a very pleasant journey, 
and I hope you will do your duty in Italy as well as 
you have done it in Carthage. 

\^She goes out C. 

i^NEAS {wiping his forehead with a handkerchief). 
That's over ! 

Enter Sergestus R. 

Sergestus. Seven minutes to noon, sir. 

iENEAS. It's all right. We go to sea to- 
morrow. 

Sergestus. Aye, aye, sir. 
\_M]^'E. AS goes out^ whistling the tune " Good-bye^ 
Carthage^ I must leave you^ 

Curtain. 



IV 
THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER 

Scene from a Tragedy. — " The Life and Death 
of Alexander.^'' Anon. [Old Plays. Printed 
for Peter Buck^ at the sign of the Temple^ near 
the Inner-Temple-gate in Fleetstreet^ I'joi.^ 

Act V. Scene iv. — Babylon, A bed-chamber in 
Alexander's Palace, Alexander sleeping 
in bed ; Roxana attending. 

RoxANA. Full thrice hath Phoebus bath'd in 
Neptune's flood, 
Thrice hath the pale-fac'd moon increas'd and wan'd, 
But Alexander is uncomforted. 
Not watchful care, nor drugs, nor natural simples 
Can hold at bay the sickness which pursues him. 
Methinks that treason whets his murderous knife. 
And meditates a foul and bloody deed. 
I dare not sleep. Have pity on my woes. 
Immortal gods ! I know not friends from foes ! 
33 D 



34 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS iv 

Enter a Slave 
Slave. Madam. 

RoxANA. I know thou bringest some ill news. 
Slave. Good madam, there is treason in the 
palace. 
The Queen Statira, envious of thy issue, 
Is plotting murder. She hath a strange syrup, 
Brew'd by a wizard in Arabia, 
More direful than the hebenon which Medea 
Did cull in Colchos by the yawning graves. 
She purposes, when sleep shall seize thee wholly. 
To give my Lord o' the juice. 

RoxANA. I thank you, slave, 

I thank you, here is gold. 
Slave. I thank you, madam. 

[^;^// Slave. Koxa^ a feigns sleep. 

Enter Queen Statira 

Statira. My Lord, I come to say a last 
farewell. 
Perchance the lying mist which seaFd thine eyes 
Shall dissipate and we may be aton'd ; 
And, deaf to false Roxana, thou'lt prefer 
Thy Royal spouse, and cancel and defy 
Her bastard's claim. 

RoxANA. Hence ! hence, foul murd'ress hence ! 
Thou cursed thief who in the midnight season 



IV THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER 35 

Dost come to filch Great Alexander's soul 
With mixture dire of hellish property, 
Begone ! Thy treason is made palpable, 
Thy baleful j uice is harmless as pure water. 
And thy dread weapon, turning on thyself. 
Shall compass thine own ignomy. 

Statira. Vain fool ! 

Thy scolding frights me not. I am Statira. 
Nor canst thou with false accusation 
Raze from this brow the seal of royalty. 
Nor take away the sov'ranty of birth. 
Albeit supplanted by a saucy caitiff, 
Albeit slighted, I was once a Queen ; 
And I am still the daughter of Darius, 
The King, whom kneeHng Emperors called the 

Great. 
Farewell, my Lord, with no more dreadful purpose 
Have I come hither, than to say farewell. 
I was thy spouse, and I will not importune 
A faithless husband with a faithfulness 
Unprofitable. So my Lord, farewell. 

[Exit Statira. Alexander wakes. 

Alexander. Roxana, take thy lute. My soul 
is heavy. 
Sing me asleep with music, let me rest. 



36 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS iv 

Song 

'Twas in the merry month of May, 
When the sweet birds do sing, 

That Proserpine — ah ! lack-a-day ! — 
Did go a-gathering. 

She stoop'd and cull'd the violet, 

The pansy and the oxHp wet. 

But gloomy Dis the maid espied, 

And yoked his horses six, 
And in his wagon drove a bride 

Across the doleful Styx. 
'Twas in the merry month of May 
She gathered flowers. Ah ! lack-a-day ! 

Alexander. I thank you, 'tis a tuneful 
melody. 
I am aweary. Sleep, impiteous sleep, 
Unmitigable, uncorruptible gaoler. 
Come, cloak my senses with thy leaden robe. 
Lead me to durance in thy drowsy cell. 

Enter Doctor 

Doctor. How doth my Lord ? 

RoxANA. Ill, ill beyond the power 
Of simples, drugs, and the physician's art. 
In slumb'ry perturbation he'll converse 
With images of his distemper'd fancy ; 
Or he will bid me touch the instrument 
And soothe his fever'd spirit with a strain. 

Doctor. Are you not weary ? It is now three 
nights 



IV THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER 37 

That you have watch'd. 

RoxANA. The canker of sharp grief, 
The sleepless sorrow gnawing at my heart 
Doth countervail outwearied nature's claim. 
I shall not sleep till Alexander wakes 
To health, or till he sleeps to wake no more. 
But, softly. See, he stirs. 

Doctor. Good night, sweet lady. 

RoxANA. Good night to you. 

[Exit Doctor. Roxana sleeps. 

Alexander. The galleys ride at anchor ! 
To-morrow we'll set sail for Italy, 
Nor rest until we've pitch'd our tent in Rome, 
And snatch'd the insolent jewel of the West. 
But yesterday the Afric oracle 
Bespake to me an unconfined sway. 
An orb and empery unparallel'd. 
And thence, when the barbarians of the West 
Are mild as leashed hounds beneath our yoke. 
And when each sev'ral province hath subscrib'd, 
To India we'll retrace our eager steps 
And reach the undiscover'd sea beyond. 
By the lush banks of Ganges, Alexander 
Shall build a temple to his royal sire. 
Great Jupiter. Thence we'll to Babylon, 
And plant there our abiding seat of rule 
In the fix'd centre of the universe. 



38 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS iv 

North, south, and east and west shall our dominion. 

Like the spread rays of gold Hyperion, 

Pierce to the distant corners of the globe. 

Oh look, Seleucus, look, Hephaestion, 

Look, the Swarth King in jewell'd burgonet, 

All clinquant, mounted on an elephant, 

Advances with his congregated host. 

On veterans ! On, on, Bucephalus ! 

The ford ! The ford ! The villains fly ! Come, 

Ho! 
Clitus, awake, Roxana, O. 

RoxANA. My Lord ? 

Alexander. Didst thou cry out ? 
Roxana. My Lord, I was asleep. 

And knew not that I cried. 

Alexander. Give me to drink. 

Methought I was once more in India, 
Crying my veterans to victory 
Across the enchafed surges of Hydaspes, 
My spirit fails. Come near to me, Roxana, 
That I may breathe my last in fond adieu. 

Roxana. Drink, my Lord, of this potion. It 
is mix'd 
Of herb-grace by a sure apothecary. 

Alexander. Farewell, Roxana. Hie thee to 
my mother, 
Olympias, and tell her that I die 



IV THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER 39 

Her name upon my lips, a dutiful son. 
Salute her with deep duty, say I needed 
Her tenderness ; say that I am the shadow, 
The mockery and ruins of her boy 
Who manag'd and bestrid Bucephalus. 
Remain with her, and let our only child 
Be nurs'd and schoolM in martial exercise, 
And taught, as I was taught, philosophy. 
Farewell, adieu ! The last of all the Greeks 
Hath gone to meet Achilles. 

RoxANA. O my Lord ! 

Enter Messenger 

Messenger. Most gracious liege, the veterans 
are here, 
They press without. 

Alexander. They shall be welcome. Ho ! 
Come quickly, veterans, or I am dead. 

Roxana. My Lord ! My husband ! 

Enter Veterans 

Alexander. Friends, farewell to you, 

Friends all and brothers all and countrymen. 
Born of one soil in Macedonia, 
Tell Macedon of how we fought together 
Beyond Hydaspes. Grieve not overmuch. 
That with the world half-conquer'd I must die, 



40 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS iv 

Not lighting, but in bed, and like a woman. 

I, to whom earth's huge globe was all too small, 

Must occupy a niggard urn of dust. 

I am for India. Come, Bucephalus, 

One charge and we are masters of the world ! 

[Dies. 
RoxANA. Great Alexander's dead. That soar- 
ing spirit 
Which fretted in the confines of the world. 
Hath broken from its circumscribing clay. 
Hyperion himself was not so bright. 
Nor Mars so bold. Our Orient sun hath set. 
Ashy eclipse shall darken the stale world : 
Asia and Egypt to the furthest Ind, 
And Greece, and Macedon, where he was born, 
Shall mingle tears of everlasting woe. 
Come bear his body hence, and build a pyre 
More lofty than the walls of Babylon j 
And when the funeral's done, we'll bear his urn. 
Obsequiously in sad procession. 
Across the Libyan desert, to the grove 
Where stands the Temple of his father Jove. 

Curtain. 



V 

THE GREEK VASE 

Scene. — A garret on the top floor of a squalid 
house in the Trastevere^ Rome. Discovered : 
Giovanni, a young sculptor^ lying in hed^ pale 
and emaciated ; he coughs incessantly. The 
room is quite bare. There are only two chairs 
and one cupboard. It is very cold. There is no 
Hre. By the bedside sits a prosperous dealer. 
He wears a frock-coat and a gold pince-nez. 

Giovanni (wearily). But I tell you it's not for 
sale. 

The Dealer. You might let me look at it. 

Giovanni. What is the use ? I tell you I 
won't sell it. 

The Dealer. There can be no harm in your 
showing it to me. 

Giovanni [coughing). Not to-day. Can't you 
see that I'm very ill and that talking tires me ? 
41 



42 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS v 

The Dealer. Very well. I will call again 
to-morrow. 

Giovanni. You won't find me at home. 

The Dealer. Are you going away ? 

Giovanni. Yes, on a long journey. 

The Dealer. Abroad ? 

Giovanni. Abroad. 

The Dealer. To what country ? 

Giovanni. They have prescribed me change 
of air. They say it is the only thing which can 
cure me. 

The Dealer. You are going to the seaside ? 

Giovanni. On the contrary, I am going to be 
near a river. 

The Dealer. The Arno ? Pisa, I suppose ? 

GlOVANNL No. 

The Dealer. Not Paris j that would be bad 
for you. 

Giovanni. Why do you think Paris would be 
bad for me ? 

The Dealer. In the first place it's very cold 
there now, and then I don't think a large town is 
what you need. 

Giovanni. You are anxious that I should not 
go to Paris. 

The Dealer. I? Not at all. Why? I 
merely meant that I thought you needed country air. 



V THE GREEK VASE 43 

Giovanni. Yes, a villa on the Riviera for the 
winter, and another for the summer at Amalii with 
a garden of roses ; or a chalet in the Tyrol ; or 
perhaps an island in the Tropics with palm trees 
and a yacht to sail about in — all that would do me 
good, wouldn't it ? One doesn't have to pay 
for little luxuries hke that, does one ? They drop 
from heaven into the pockets of starving artists. 

The Dealer. Now, if you would only be 
reasonable and show me that vase. I am sure we 
could make enough money for you to take a trip 
to Albano. The air there is beautiful. 

Giovanni. Very well, you may see it. It's in 
the cupboard. 

[ The Dealer goes to the cupboard and takes out 
large black circular Greek vase with figures 
painted on it. He observes it carefully. 

The Dealer. This is not, of course, up to 
your best form. I won't say that it is valueless. 
There is, however, very little market now for this 
kind of thing, and if I bought it I should probably 
have it on my hands for years. 

Giovanni. You needn't trouble about that. 
The vase is not for sale. 

The Dealer. But in the peculiar circum- 
stances, and since we have done business together 
for so many years, I am willing to make an excep- 



44 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS v 

tion in this case. How much do you want for 
it? 

Giovanni [savagely), I tell you it's not for sale. 

The Dealer. Now, be reasonable. I will 
give forty lire for it. 

Giovanni. You amuse me immensely. 

The Dealer. The vase is of no particular use 
to me, and the fashion changes so quickly. Col- 
lectors now are mad about Egypt and Japan. 
Greece is finished. It's old, finished. Why, 
collectors now prefer even Roman things to Greek. 
Giordani says 

Giovanni. You are wasting your breath. 

The Dealer. I will give you forty-five lire. 
Mind you, that's an enormous price, because, I 
repeat, the vase is not up to your usual standard. 

Giovanni. Please put the vase down on this 
chair, there, next me. ( The Dealer puts the vase 
down on the chair next to Giovanni.) Thank you. 
Now I wish you would go away. I am tired. 
You tire me. [He coughs.) 

The Dealer. Now, instead of a vase, if it 
had only been a Japanese idol or a Renaissance 
figure, it would be a very different matter. 

Giovanni. When you bought my Simonetta 
you said there was no demand for Renaissance 
work. 



V THE GREEK VASE 45 

The Dealer. That was three years ago. It 
was perfectly true then. The fashion changes so 
quickly. 

Giovanni. I won't sell the vase. 

The Dealer. Then, how do you propose to 
live ? 

Giovanni. Perhaps I have found a patron ? 

The Dealer. Ah ! Who is he ? 

Giovanni. You would like to know, wouldn't 
you ? 

The Dealer. I wouldn't believe it of you. I 
know you are far too honest to violate all the 
canons of business etiquette and to play off one 
patron against another. You have always dealt 
with me, and I have always treated you handsomely 
— most handsomely — you must admit that. 

Giovanni. How much did you give me for 
my large terra-cotta bust of Pallas ? 

The Dealer. I was mad when I bought that 
bust. I sold it for a quarter of what I gave you. 
I had the greatest difficulty in getting rid of it. 

Giovanni. How much exactly did you give 
me for it ? 

The Dealer. Of course, I could never give 
you so much as that again. 

Giovanni [impatiently). How much was it ? 

The Dealer. I believe it was eighty-five lire. 



46 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS v 

I must have been mad. But times were better 
then. There is no market for that kind of thing 
now, none whatever. 

Giovanni. So much the better for you, then, 
as you won't lose money over my vase. 

The Dealer. For old acquaintance' sake, I 
ofFer you fifty lire ; there, you see ? 

Giovanni. You make very good jokes. 

The Dealer. Do you mean to say you think 
that's too little ? 

Giovanni. 1 said you make very good jokes. 
You're a witty fellow. 

The Dealer. You artists are so improvident. 
You never know how many soldi there are in a 
lira. 

Giovanni. You see we don't have very much 
experience in counting lire. {He coughs.) 

The Dealer. Ah ! if you only counted the 
soldi the lire would take care of themselves. 

Giovanni. We don't always have the chance 
of counting soldi. 

The Dealer. To think of the position you 
might be in now if you had only observed the 
elementary rules of thrift. 

Giovanni. And to think of the position you 
are in by my not having done so ! 

The Dealer, Yes ; here am I obliged, posi- 



V THE GREEK VASE 47 

tively forced, to offer you for a trumpery vase at 
least three times its value, and I give you my word 
of honour that in offering you fifty-five lire for the 
vase — for I am going to go as far as that — I shall 
be out of pocket — out of pocket. Do you under- 
stand ? 

Giovanni. I quite understand, only if I were 
you I shouldn't bring in the word " honour." 
The Dealer. I don't understand. 
Giovanni. You wouldn't. 
The Dealer. Well, fifty-five lire ; it's a 
bargain ! 

Giovanni. Suppose we talk about something 
else. 

The Dealer. You are all the same, you 
artists. . . . You never will listen to reason. You 
never will understand that business is business and 

not 

Giovanni. Charity. 

The Dealer. In this case it is charity, pure 
charity. I would not dream of buying the vase 
from any one else. 

Giovanni. I don't expect you would. 
The Dealer. Why, Leonardi sold me only 
yesterday a little ivory Perseus for thirty lire. 

Giovanni. I made that Perseus, and you know 
it f otherwise you wouldn't have bought it. 



48 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS v 

The Dealer. Well, I'm a busy man, and I 
can't waste my time arguing with you. I'll give 
you sixty lire. That's my last word. 

Giovanni. It's a great pity you didn't go on 
the stage. 

The Dealer. You think I'm trying to cheat 

you. Surely 

Giovanni. No, I don't think anything of the 
kind. 

The Dealer. Now, come, let me take the 
vase. You've got no use for it here. Think 
what a nice little trip to Albano will do for you. 

Giovanni (coughing). You can't imagine how 
you tire me. 

The Dealer. I never knew siich an obstinate 
fellow as you are. I'll make it seventy, but this is 
positively my last word. You can take it or leave 
it. 

Giovanni. Oh ! Leave it for Heaven's sake. 
Leave the vase, and leave me. {He coughs.) 

The Dealer. You're surely not going to sell 
it to some one else ; you wouldn't be so mean ! 
Giovanni. Who knows ? 
The Dealer. That kind of blufF, my friend, 
won't do with me. I am too old a bird to be 
caught by a trick. Come now, I offer you seventy 
lire — seventy whole lire. Do you understand ? 



V THE GREEK VASE 49 

Giovanni. It's impossible. The vase is dis- 
posed of. 

The Dealer. Sold ! Impossible ! You couldn't 
do such a thing. You couldn't play me such a 
shabby trick. Who has bought it ? 

Giovanni. Nobody has bought it. 

The Dealer. You are trifling. It isn't fair. 
You are wasting my time. You know I'm a busy 
man. 

Giovanni. And you are wasting my time, and 
I am a dying man. They say I can't live twenty- 
four hours. 

The Dealer. What nonsense ! There, you 
see how foolish you are ! Now I tell you what 
I'll do. I'll give you two hundred lire for the vase. 
It's unheard of, but in view 

Giovanni. I am a dying man, and this is 
our last bargain. It has consequently no effect 
on future dealings. The time at your disposal is 
short ; dying men don't bluff, you must have the 
vase ; all this makes your price jump up. Listen 
to me a moment. [He takes a cutting from a news- 
paper out of his pocket.) This is a cutting from an 
Enghsh illustrated newspaper. A friend sent it 
me. It is the reproduction of a photograph, and 
under it is written : " The terra-cotta bust of 
Pallas, a work of the central period of Greek perfec- 

£ 



50 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS v 

tion, the age of Pericles, after having been rejected 
by the British Museum, has been purchased for the 
Louvre for the sum of ^^6000. While congratu- 
lating the French nation on their acquisition, we 
cannot help asking ourselves what the British 
Museum authorities," etc. I skip. But wait — 
Here is a further comment which may interest you. 
"Some of our criticasters have thrown doubts on 
the authenticity of the vase." Now look at the 
photograph. Perhaps you recognise the bust. 

The Dealer. You don't mean to say you 
think 

Giovanni [in a low voice). Be quiet. You see 
this vase. [He takes the vase.) It's not for sale. 
It never will be. Do you know why ? Because 
it's my masterpiece, and because it's mine. This is 
what I'm going to do with it. [He takes the vase 
and throws it to the ground^ shattering it to frag- 
ments.) And now I can die in peace. Go ! 

The Dealer. But 

Giovanni. Go ! [Giovanni turns his head to 
the wall.) [Exit Dealer, mumbling. 

Curtain. 



VI 

THE FATAL RUBBER 

Scene. — A Room in the Palace of the Louvre, Dis- 
covered^ seated at a card-table : Charles VI., 
King of France^ Isabeau de Baviere, the 
^een^ the Dauphin, and Catherine, his 
sister. 

The King. I think we might have some clean 
cards. 

The Queen. I won't play with those thick 
English cards, it takes hours to shuffle them. 
Besides, I think it's unpatriotic. 

The King. Rubbish ! Games are outside 
politics. 

The Queen. I think it is unpatriotic just now, 
when the war's going on, and I always shall think 
so. 

The Dauphin {yawning). What game are we 
going to play to-night ? 

SI 



52 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vi 

The King. Pont d*Avignon. 

The Queen. Pont d' Avignon. 

The Dauphin. Biribi. 

Catherine. Nain Jaune. 

The Queen. We shall, of course, play Pont 
d' Avignon. Your father w^ishes it. 

The King. Cut for deal. {They cut.) 

The Dauphin. You and I play together. Papa. 

[ They change seats so as to be opposite one another. 

The King. Cut for deal. {They cut.) 

The Dauphin. It's Papa's deal. (77j^ King 
deals.) 

The King. I leave it. 

The Dauphin. I make no trumps. 

Catherine. I double. 

The Dauphin. I redouble. 

The Queen. We're content. 

The King. You've no business to say " we're 
content." 

The Queen. We play Hearts, of course, in 
doubled no trumps. 

The King. Never ; v^e alw^ays play the highest 
of the shortest. Besides w^hich it's Catherine who 
doubled. 

The Queen. I play Hearts. The Queen of 
Hearts is called after me, so of course you must 
play Hearts, Catherine. 



VI THE FATAL RUBBER 53 

The King. You ought to have said that before. 
Besides in this case the rule doesn't apply. 

Catherine {playing the two of Hearts to the 
Dauphin). Put your cards down, Charles. 

\_The Dauphin puts his hand down. He has 

got no Hearts^ the ace^ King^ ten^ Knave^ and 

five of Clubs ; ace^ ^ueen^ ten^ and six of 

Diamonds ; ^ueen^ Knave ^ ten^ nine of Spades. 

The King. That's not a no-trumper. You 

might have made no trumps if it had been your 

make. As for redoubling, it's too absurd. 

[ The Queen takes the trick with the ^een of 
Hearts ; neither the King nor the Dauphin 
have got any. 
The Queen. No Hearts. How odd ! Then 
all the rest are ours. I've got nine Hearts now. 

The King. I beg your pardon. It's not at all 
so certain. 

The Queen. Very well, we'll play it. 
Catherine. I can see your cards, Papa. 
[ They play ; the Queen rakes in her tricks ; in 
the last round but one the King throws away 
the ace of Diamonds instead of the ace of Clubs ^ 
thereby enabling Catherine to make the King 
of Diamonds. 
The Queen [triumphantly] The Grand Slam ! 
The Dauphin, You wouldn't have made it if 



54 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vi 

Papa had played properly, and not thrown away his 
ace of Diamonds. 

The King. I couldn't have done anything 
else, and it wouldn't have made the slightest 
difference. 

The Dauphin. We should have saved the 
slam, that's all. 

The King. In the first place you ought never 
to have redoubled. 

The Dauphin. I held excellent cards. 

The King. You had nothing at all — ^absolutely 
nothing. 

The Dauphin, Two aces ; ace. King, Knave, 
ten of Clubs 

The King. I had the ten of Clubs. 

Catherine. No, Papa, I had the ten. 

The Dauphin. I'm quite positive I had 
the ten. 

The Queen. As a matter of fact I had the 
ten of Clubs. 

The King. I know I had the ten. It's not 
the slightest use discussing the matter. 

Catherine. Oh, Papa, how can you say 
that ! Of course you hadn't. 

The King. I played this game before you 
were born and I suppose I know if a hand is a no- 
trumper or not. 



VI THE FATAL RUBBER 55 

The Dauphin. I had a much better hand 
than Catherine's. She had no right to double. 

Catherine. I had everything 

The Dauphin. Besides which it wasn't 
fair. 

Catherine. What wasn't fair ? 

The Dauphin. To play Hearts. 

The King. You're quite right, Charles, it 
wasn't fair. 

The Dauphin. You would never have played 
Hearts, if Mamma hadn't told you to. 

The Queen. I never told the child anything. 
I only played according to the rules. 

The King. In the first place the rule didn't 
apply, and in the second place it's not the rule. 
It's a stupid convention invented by the ItaHans. 

The Queen. I always have played Hearts in 
doubled no trumps, and I always shall. 

The King. You might just as well give your 
partner a trick under the table. 

Catherine. I should have played Hearts in 
any case. 

The Dauphin. What a lie ! 

Catherine. It's you who tell lies. You said 
you'd the ten of Clubs. 

The Dauphin. We've always played from 
the shortest suit before. 



56 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vi 

The King. Besides which, you never said a 
word about it until you saw your cards. 

The Queen. Of course not, because I always 
play Hearts. It's so much the best game. 

The King. If you did that with other people 
they'd consider it cheating. 

The Dauphin. It was cheating. 

Catherine. You needn't talk about cheating, 
Charles. You cheated this morning at tennis — 
twice. 

The Dauphin. I didn't. You don't under- 
stand the score. No woman does. 

The King. Women have got no morals about 
cards whatsoever. 

The Queen. As a matter of fact we should 
have won anyhow, if Catherine had played Hearts 
or not. 

Catherine. Of course we should. 

The Dauphin. Oh ! Really ! 

The King. You couldn't possibly have made 
the trick. 

The Queen. We should have made at least 
four tricks ; we couldn't help it. 

The King. And you talk the whole time — no 
wonder one loses. 

The Dauphin. It's quite impossible to play 
when they interrupt. 



VI THE FATAL RUBBER 57 

The King. And touch the cards. 

The Dauphin. And tell each other what to 
play. 

The King. And argue about every trick. 

The Dauphin. And then never tell the truth. 

The Queen. If I were you, Charles, I would 
learn the rudimentary elements of the game. 

The King. And not double when you've got 
nothing. 

Catherine. And not revoke. 

The Dauphin. When did I revoke ? 

Catherine. Last night. 

The Dauphin. I didn't. 

Catherine. I suppose it wasn't a real revoke, 
just like I suppose you had the ten of Clubs just 
now. 

The Dauphin. So I had. 

Catherine. You wouldn't dare play like that 
if we were playing for money. 

The Dauphin. Very well. If you think I 
cheat I shan't play at all. 

[He goes out of the room and slams the door. 

The King. We'll play without him. 

Catherine. I'd much rather play without 
him. Charles is quite impossible at cards — in fact 
at all games. 

The Queen. Whose deal is it ? 



58 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vi 

The King. We must begin a fresh rubber. 
When one plays three, a game counts for a rubber. 

The Queen. Charles ! 

The Dauphin [opening the door). What is it ? 

The Queen. Come back at once. Don't be 
so silly. Your father wants to play. 

The Dauphin. It's no good my playing if 
you all say I cheat. 

Catherine. I never said you cheated. 

The Queen. Come back directly. [The 
Dauphin comes back and sits down at the table sulkily.) 

The King. Whose deal is it ? 

Catherine. Mine. 

The Dauphin. Mine. 

Catherine. Papa dealt last time. 

The Dauphin. No ; you dealt and I doubled. 

Catherine. Papa dealt and left it. 

The Dauphin. You dealt, because I remember 
you nearly made a misdeal. 

Catherine. I never make misdeals. 

The Dauphin. Always. 

Catherine. Very well. You'd better play 
without me. 

\_She goes out and slams the door. 

The King. Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! They'll 
drive me mad ! 

The Queen [going to the door). Catherine, 



VI THE FATAL RUBBER 59 

come back this moment. Because Charles chooses 
to make a fool of himself that's no reason why you 
should. 

Catherine. I don't want to play. It's no fun 
playing with Charles. 

The King. Oh ! do let's go on with the game. 
Do try and not quarrel so, children. {Catherine 
comes hack and sits down.) 

Catherine. I'll come back this time, but if he 
says I cheat again, I shall never play again as long 
as I live. 

The Oueen. Hush ! It's Catherine's deal. 

Catherine. There you see ! 

The Queen. Hush ! 

[Catherine deals. 

The Queen (looking at her cards). I shouldn't 
at all mind if it was left to me this time. 

The King. You've no business whatever to 
say a word. 

The Queen. As if it made any difference ! 

The King. It makes an enormous difference. 

The Queen. Not in this case. 

The King. That's nothing to do with it. It's 
the principle that's wrong. 

Catherine. I leave it. 

The King. There you see ! 

Catherine. Papa, I couldn't do anything else. 



6o DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vi 

The Queen. I make no trumps. 
[ The Dauphin leads a card ; the Queen puts 
down her cards^ revealing an excellent lead -y 
Catherine hesitates a moment what to play 
from dummy s hand^ the Queen touches one oj 
dummy'*s cards to show. 
The King. Isabeau, the dummy has no busi- 
ness to touch the cards. That is cheating if you like. 
The Queen [rising up in great dignity). IVe 
played cards for twenty- five years and have never 
yet been called a cheat in my ow^n house. 

[ She walks to the door. 
Catherine. Mamma, Mamma, do come back. 
The Dauphin {walking after her). Oh ! Do 
come back ! 

The King {getting up). Don't be so absurd. 
You're all of you one worse than the other ! 
The Queen. No, no, he called me a cheat. 
The King. I never did anything of the sort. 
The Queen. No wonder the children never 
speak the truth when they've got such a father ! 
The King. Now sit down and let's go on. 
[They sit down. The Kii^G plays. Catherine 
plays from her handy and then the Dauphin. 
Catherine again hesitates about dummy^s 
cardy and the Queen again touches a card 
showing her what to play. 



VI THE FATAL RUBBER 6i 

The Dauphin. Papa, Mamma's cheated again. 
The Queen {getting up). I won't have you say 
that. 

Catherine {shouting). Oh ! Charles ! 
The Dauphin {screaming). But she showed 

you 

[^The K.ISG gets up and throws the cards to the 
other end of the room^ kicks over the card-table^ 
and rushes to the door screaming. 
The Queen {terror-stricken). Heaven have 
mercy upon us, your father's gone mad ! 

Curtain. 



VII 

THE REHEARSAL 

Scene. — The Globe Theatre^ I595« On the stage the 
Author, the Producer, and the Stage 
Manager are standing. A rehearsal of 
" Macbeth " is about to begin. Waiting in the 
wings are the actors ivho are playing the 
Witches, Banquo, Macduff, etc They are 
all men. 

The Stage Manager. We'd better begin 
with the last act. 

The Producer. I think we'll begin with the 
first act. We've never done it all through yet. 

The Stage Manager. Mr. Colman isn't 
here. It's no good doing the first act without 
Duncan. 

The Producer. Where is Mr. Colman ? Did 
you let him know about rehearsal ? 

63 



VII THE REHEARSAL 63 

The Stage Manager. I sent a messenger to 
his house in Gray's Inn. 

The First Witch. Mr. Colman is playing 
Psyche in a masque at Kenilworth. He won't be 
back until the day after to-morrow. 

The Producer. That settles it. We'll begin 
with the fifth act. 

The First Witch. Then I suppose I can go. 

The Second Witch.] And I suppose we 

The Third Witch./ needn't wait. 

The Stage Manager. Certainly not. We're 
going on to the fourth act as soon as we've done 
the fifth. 

Banquo. But I suppose you don't want me. 

The Stage Manager. And what about your 
ghost entrance in Act IV. ? We must get the 
business right this time; besides, we'll do the second 
act if we've time. Now, Act V., Mr. Thomas and 
Mr. Bowles, please. 

The First Witch. Mr. Bowles can't come 
to-day. He told me to tell you. He's having a 
tooth pulled out. 

The Stage Manager. Then will you read 
the waiting gentlewoman's part, Mr. Lyle. You 
can take this scrip. 

[ The First Witch takes the scrip. 
Where is Mr. Thomas ? 



64 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vii 

The First Witch. He said he was coming. 

The Stage Manager. We can't wait. I'll 
read his part. We'll leave out the beginning and 
just give Mr. Hughes his cue. 

The First Witch {reading). " Having no 
witness to confirm my speech." 

The Stage Manager. Mr. Hughes. 

The First Witch. He was here a moment 
ago. 

The Stage Manager {louder). Mr. Hughes. 

Enter Lady Macbeth (Mr. Hughes, a young 
man about 24) 

Lady Macbeth. Sorry. {He comes on down 
some steps L.C.) 

The Producer. That will never do, Mr. 
Hughes ; there's no necessity to sway as if you 
were intoxicated, and you mustn't look at your 
feet. 

Lady Macbeth. It's the steps. They're so 
rickety. 

The Producer. We'll begin again from 
" speech." 

[Lady Macbeth comes on again. He looks 
straight in front of him and falls heavily on to 
the ground. 
I said those steps were to be mended yesterday. 



VII THE REHEARSAL 65 

[^The First Witch is convulsed with laughter. 
Lady Macbeth. There's nothing to laugh at. 
The Producer. Are you hurt, Mr. Hughes ? 
Lady Macbeth. Not much. {The steps are 
replaced by two supers.) 

The Producer. Now from " speech." 

[Mr. Hughes comes on again. 
The Producer. You must not hold the taper 
upside down. 

Lady Macbeth. How can I rub my hands 

and hold a taper too ? What's the use of the taper ? 

The Producer. You can rub the back of 

your hand. You needn't wash your hands in the 

air. That's better. 

\_The dialogue between the Doctor and the 
Gentlewoman proceeds until Lady Mac- 
beth's cue: ^^hour.^"* 

Enter the Doctor (Mr. Thomas). He waits R. 

Lady Macbeth. " Here's a damned spot." 
The Stage Manager. No, no, Mr. Hughes, 
" Yet here's a spot." 

The Producer. Begin again from " hands." 
Gentlewoman. "It is an accustomed action with 
her, to seem thus washing her hands. I've known 
her to continue in this three-quarters of an hour." 
Lady Macbeth. "Yet here's a damned spot." 



66 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vii 

The Stage Manager. It's not "damned" 
at all. That comes later. 

Lady Macbeth. It's catchy. Couldn't I say 
" mark " instead of " spot " in the first line ? 

The Doctor {coming forward). That would 
entirely spoil the effect of my " Hark ! " You see 
" mark " rhymes with " Hark." It's impossible. 

The Producer. Oh ! it's you, Mr. Thomas. 
Will you go straight on. We'll do the whole scene 
over presently. Now from " hour." 

Lady Macbeth. " Yes, here's a spot." 

The Stage Manager. It's not "Yes," but 
"Yet," Mr. Hughes. 

Lady Macbeth. " Yet here's a spot." 

The Doctor {at the top of his voice). " Hark ! " 

The Producer. Not so loud, Mr. Thomas, 
that would wake her up. 

The Doctor {in a high falsetto). " Har-r-rk ! 
She spe-e-e-aks. I will . . . set . . . down." 

The Producer. You needn't bleat that 
" speaks," Mr. Thomas, and the second part of that 
line is cut. 

The Doctor. It's not cut in my part. " Hark, 
she speaks." 

Lady Macbeth. " Yet here's a spot." 

The Stage Manager. No, Mr. Hughes ; 
" out damned spot." 



VII THE REHEARSAL 67 

Lady Macbeth. Sorry. 

The Producer. We must get that right. Now 
from "hour." 

Lady Macbeth. " Yet here's a spot." 

The Doctor. " Hark ! she speaks." 

Lady Macbeth. " Get out, damned spot ! 
Get out, I say ! One, two, three, four : why 
there's plenty of time to do't. Oh ! Hell ! Fie, 
fie, my Lord ! a soldier and a beard ? What have 
we got to fear when none can call our murky power 
to swift account withal ? You'd never have thought 
the old man had so much blood in him ! " 

The Author. I don't think you've got those 
lines quite right yet, Mr. Hughes. 

Lady Macbeth. What's wrong ? 

The Stage Manager. There's no "get." 
It's "one; two": and not "one, two, three, four." 
Then it's "Hell is murky." And there's no 
" plenty." And it's " a soldier and afeared^^ and 
not "a soldier and a beard" 

The Author. And after that you made two 
lines into rhymed verse. 

Mr. Hughes. Yes, I know I did. I thought it 
wanted it. 

The Producer. Please try to speak your lines 
as they are written, Mr. Hughes. 



68 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vii 

Enter Mr. Burbage, who plays Macbeth 

Mr. Burbage. That scene doesn't go. Now 
don't you think Macbeth had better walk in his 
sleep instead of Lady Macbeth ? 

The Stage Manager. That's an idea. 

The Producer. I think the whole scene might 
be cut. It's quite unnecessary. 

Lady Macbeth. Then I shan't come on in 
the whole of the fifth act. If that scene's cut I 
shan't play at all. 

The Stage Manager. We're thinking of 
transferring the scene to Macbeth. ( To the Author.) 
It wouldn't need much altering. Would you mind 
rewriting that scene, Mr. Shakespeare ? It wouldn't 
want much alteration. You'd have to change that 
line about Arabia. Instead of this " little hand," 
you might say : " All the perfumes of Arabia will 
not sweeten this horny hand." I'm not sure it 
isn't more effective. 

The Author. I'm afraid it might get a 
laugh. 

Mr. Burbage. Not if I play it. 

The Author. I think it's more likely that 
Lady Macbeth would walk in her sleep, but 

Mr. Burbage.. That doesn't signify. I can 
make a great hit in that scene. 



VII THE REHEARSAL 69 

Lady Macbeth. If you take that scene from 
me, I shan't play Juliet to-night. 

The Stage Manager {aside to Producer). We 
can't possibly get another Juliet. 

The Producer. On the whole, I think we 
must leave the scene as it is. 

Mr. Burbage. I've got nothing to do in the 
last act. What's the use of my coming to rehearsal 
w^hen there's nothing for me to rehearse ? 

The Producer. Very w^ell, Mr. Burbage. 
We'll go on to the third scene at once. We'll go 
through your scene again later, Mr. Hughes. 

Mr. Burbage. Before wo, do this scene 
there's a point I whh to settle. In Scene V., when 
Seyton tells me the Queen's dead, I say : " She 
should have died hereafter ; there would have been 
a time for such a word " ; and then the messenger 
enters. I should like a soliloquy here, about twenty 
or thirty lines, if possible in rhyme, in any case 
ending with a tag. I should like it to be about Lady 
Macbeth. Macbeth might have something touch- 
ing to say about their happy domestic life, and the 
early days of their marriage. He might refer to their 
courtship. I must have something to make Macbeth 
sympathetic, otherwise the public won't stand it. 
He might say his better-half had left him, and then he 
might refer to her beauty. The speech might begin : 



70 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vii 

O dearest chuck, it is unkind indeed 

To leave me in the midst of my sore need. 

Or something of the kind. In any case it ought to 
rhyme. Could I have that written at once, and 
then we could rehearse it ? 

The Producer. Certainly, certainly, Mr. 
Burbage. Will you write it yourself, Mr. Shake- 
speare, or shall we get some one else to do it ? 

The Author. I'll do it myself if some one 
will read my part. 

The Producer. Let me see -, I forget what is 
your part. 

The Stage Manager. Mr. Shakespeare is 
playing Seyton. [Aside.) We cast him for Duncan, 
but he wasn't up to it. 

The Producer. Mr. Kydd, will you read Mr. 
Shakespeare's part ? 

Banquo. Certainly. 

The Producer. Please let us have that 
speech, Mr. Shakespeare, as quickly as possible. 
[Aside.) Don't make it too long. Ten lines at the 
most. 

The Author [aside). Is it absolutely necessary 
that it should rhyme ? 

The Producer [aside). No, of course not ; 
that's Burbage's fad. 

[Exit the Author into the wings. 



VII THE REHEARSAL 71 

Mr. Burbage. I should like to go through 
the fight first. 

The Producer. Very well, Mr. Burbage. 

The Stage Manager. MacdufF — Mr. 
Foote 

Macduff. Fm here. 

Mr. Burbage. I'll give you the cue : 
" Why should I play the fool and like a Roman 
Die on my sword, while there is life, there's 

hope, 
The gashes are for them." 

Macduff. " Turn, hell hound, turn." 

Mr. Burbage. I don't think MacdufF ought 
to call Macbeth a hell hound. 

The Producer. What do you suggest ? 

Mr. Burbage. I should suggest : " False 
Monarch, turn." It's more dignified. 

Macduff. I would rather say " hell hound." 

The Producer. Supposing we made it "King 
of Hell." 

Mr. Burbage. I don't think that would do. 

The Producer. Then we must leave it for the 
present. 

Macduff. "Turn, hell hound, turn." 

[They begin to fight with wooden swords. 

The Stage Manager. You don't begin to 
fight till Macduff says " Give thee out." 



72 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vii 

Mr. Burbage. I think we might run those two 
speeches into one, and I might say : 
" Of all men I would have avoided thee, 

But come on now, although my soul is charged 

With blood of thine, I'll have no further words. 

My voice is in my sword." 
Then Macduff could say : 
" O bloodier villain than terms can well express." 

The Producer. We must consult the author 
about that. 

Mr. Burbage. We'll do the fencing without 
words first. 

\_They begin to fight again, Macduff gives 
Mr. Burbage a tremendous blow on the 
shoulder. 

Mr. Burbage. Oh ! oh ! That's my rheumatic 
shoulder. Please be a little more careful, Mr. 
Foote. You know I've got no padding. I can't go 
on rehearsing now. I am very seriously hurt indeed. 

Macduff. I'm sure I'm very sorry. It was 
entirely an accident. 

Mr. Burbage. I'm afraid I must go home. I 
don't feel up to it. 

The Stage Manager. I'll send for some 
ointment. Please be more careful, Mr. Foote. 
Couldn't you possibly see your way to take Scene 
III., Mr. Burbage ? 



VII THE REHEARSAL 73 

Mr. Burbage. I know Scene HI. backwards. 
However, Fll just run through my speech. 

The Stage Manager. What ? "This push 
will cheer me ever " ? 

Mr. Burbage {peevishly). No, not that one. 
You know that's all right. That tricky speech 
about medicine. Give me the cue. 

The Stage Manager. " That keep her from 
her rest." 

Mr. Burbage. " Cure her of that : 

Canst thou not minister to a sickly mind. 
Pull from the memory a booted sorrow, 
Rub out the troubles of the busy brain. 
And with a sweet and soothing antidote 
Clean the stiff bosom of that dangerous poison 
Which weighs upon the heart ? " 
There, you see, word-perfect. What did I say ? 

The Stage Manager. Yes, yes, Mr. Burbage. 
Here's Mr. Shakespeare. 

The Author. I've written that speech. Shall 
I read it ? 

The Producer. Please. 

Mr. Shakespeare [reads). "To-morrow, and 
to-morrow, and to-morrow. 
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day. 
To the last syllable of recorded time ; 
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 



74 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vii 

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief 

candle ! 
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player 
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
And then is heard no more ; it is a tale 
Told by an. idiot, full of sound and fury. 
Signifying nothing." 

Mr. Burbage. Well, you don't expect me to 
say that, I suppose. It's a third too short. There's 
not a single rhyme in it. It's got nothing to do 
with the situation, and it's an insult to the stage. 
" Struts and frets " indeed ! I see there's nothing 
left for me but to throw up the part. You can get 
any one you please to play Macbeth. One thing 
is quite certain, I won't. 

[Exit Mr. Burbage in a passion. 

The Stage Manager (to the Author). Now 
you've done it. 

The Author {to the Producer). You said it 
needn't rhyme. 

The Producer. It's Macduff. It was all your 
fault, Mr. Foote. 

Lady Macbeth. Am I to wear a fair wig or 
a dark wig ? 

The Producer. Oh ! I don't know. 

The Author. Dark, if you please. People 
are always saying I'm making portraits. So, if 



VII THE REHEARSAL 75 

you're dark, nobody can say I meant the character 
for the Queen or for Mistress Mary Fytton, 

The Stage Manager. It's no good going on 
now. It's all up — it's all up. 

Curtain. 



VIII 
THE BLUE HARLEQUIN 

(with apologies to MR. MAETERLINCK) 

Scene. — A London street-, the houses are scarcely 
visible in the diaphanous mist. On the right^ 
darkling^ is a sausage shop ; on the left a green- 
grocer's. The shop windows glimmer like opals. 

Enter a Policeman. He is dressed in a 
cerulean tunic^ and his truncheon is transparent 
and glows like a beryl. 

The Policeman. It was not on my beat. It 
was not on my beat. 

Enter the Pantaloon. He is very old 

The Pantaloon. I am very old. I am so old 
that I cannot remember things. I cannot remem- 
ber names. 

The Policeman. Move on. 

The Pantaloon. I am always moving on. I 
feel like a sea-gull. 

76 



VIII THE BLUE HARLEQUIN 77 

The Policeman. Move on. I have already 
told you to move on. 

The Pantaloon. He told me to move on. 
He said I would be obliged to move on. I am so 
old that I forget what they say to me. 

The Policeman. Your beard is like grass. It 
is like the grass that grows over men's graves. I 
do not like your beard. 

The Pantaloon. You have no beard. Your 
face is smooth. It has a hole on one side of it like 
a cheese. The moon has a hole on one side of it 
It is foggy in the street. The fog is shivering. 

[Pointing to the door of the sausage shop. 
Behind that door there is no fog. 

The Policeman. Nobody has ever opened 
that door. The key of that door is lost. The lock 
is broken. It is a useless door. 

The Pantaloon. Years ago that door had a 
key. There was a little red stain on the key. It 
wanted cleaning. 

The Policeman. It was a rusty key. 

The Pantaloon. It was a latch-key. 

The Policeman. It was lost on a Thurs- 
day. 

The Pantaloon. On the Friday they came 
to clean the key, but it was too dark to clean it. 

The Policeman. On Saturday morning there 



78 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vm 

was no time. On Saturday afternoon the shops 
were shut. 

The Pantaloon. The shops were shut all 
Sunday. 

The Policeman. Monday was Bank Holiday. 
They went away on Monday. 

The Pantaloon. It rained all day on Monday. 
It poured with rain. The rain was damp. It had 
come from a damp place. It was wet rain. 

The Policeman. They told me he was 
wanted. 

The Pantaloon. They asked me what time 
it was. I said : " I am so old I have forgotten 
what time it is. I cannot remember things." 

The Policeman. They came back on Monday 
night. When they came back they had forgotten 
all about the key. 

The Pantaloon. I said if you want to know 
what time it is you must ask the policeman. The 
policeman knows. 

The Policeman. He knows. 

The Pantaloon. What time is it ? 

The Policeman. It is seven minutes to five. 
It will soon be five minutes to five. 

The Pantaloon. She goes out at five, every 
day, for a walk. 

The Policeman. She will walk through the 



VIII THE BLUE HARLEQUIN 79 

fog at five. She is sure to come. I am certain she 
will come. 

The Pantaloon. She will tell him he is wanted. 

The Policeman. If he comes on to my beat 
I will take him up. 

The Pantaloon. He will never come on to your 
beat. 

Enter the Clown with a red-hot poker^ 
which shines like a carbuncle 

The Clown. It is strange that we should meet 
here again. We always meet at the same place and 
at the same hour. 

The Pantaloon. I am so old I had forgotten 
I should meet you. When you walked down the 
street I thought you were some one else. I thought 
I had never seen you before. 

The Clown. It is so foggy in the street and 
my poker is getting cold. 

The Pantaloon. If you put it in the fire it 
will get warm again. 

The Clown. There is no fire in the street. 
The policeman says we may not light a fire in the 
street. It is dangerous. It frightens the people. 

The Pantaloon. Last time they lit a fire in 
the street it was the 5th of November. 

The Clown. The policeman was not there on 
the 5th of November. 



8o DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS viii 

The Pantaloon. It was not on his beat. 

The Clown. His beat is far away — on the 
sand. 

The Pantaloon. There is a cave near his beat. 

The Clown. There is a public-house near his 
beat. There is a public-house quite close to his 
beat. It has two doors. 

The Pantaloon. One is marked "Public." 
He never opens that door. 

The Clown. The other is marked " Private." 
He opens it and it swings backwards and forwards. 

The Pantaloon. The people inside complain 
of the draught. They are always complaining. 

The Clown. She waits for him on the other 
side the railings. 

The Pantaloon. The railings are very 
strong. They are black railings. They are in 
front of the area. She hands things to him through 
the railings. She gives him things to eat and 
things to drink. 

The Clown. It is on his beat. 

The Pantaloon. No, it is not on his beat, 
but it is quite close to his beat. Your poker has 
got cold. 

The Clown. I will warm it. I will warm it 

on the back of the policeman. He has a broad back. 

[He rubs the Policeman with the poker. 



VIII THE BLUE HARLEQUIN 8i 

The Policeman. That poker is warm. It is 
much warmer than you think it is. {The Clown 
rubs him again.) When you do that I feel strange. 
I feel as if a ruby were burning near me. 

The Clown. I am warming you with my 
poker. It is good to be warm. It is so cold in 
this street. It never used to be so cold. It is 
foggy. The fog makes me hungry and thirsty. I 
am so hungry that I would like to eat a sausage. 

The Pantaloon. I am so hungry that I would 
like to eat many sausages, first one and then another. 
I could eat six sausages. 

The Clown. Let us go and take some 
sausages. There are some sausages hanging in that 
shop. I cannot see them through the fog, but I 
know there are some sausages there. 

The Pantaloon. I can see the sausages. 
They are all huddled together like pigeons. 

The Clown. They are close together like 
Httle wood-pigeons. I like sausages. But before 
we go I will warm the policeman. He is so cold. 

The Pantaloon. It is not on his beat. 

[ 77?^ Clown rubs the Policeman with his poker. 

The Policeman. When you do that I feel as 
if this had happened before. I feel as if I were 
in a strange room full of doors and lighted candles. 
I do not like the feeling. 



82 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS viii 

[The Pantaloon and the Clown go into the 
sausage shop. 

Enter Columbine 

Columbine. I had nine sisters. They were 
all blind, and they were all born on a Friday. 
Friday is an unlucky day. 

The Policeman. I have been waiting for you. 
I thought you had gone to him. He is wanted. I 
thought you had gone to tell him he is wanted. 

Columbine. You never will find him. 

The Policeman. I have been looking for him 
since Wednesday. I am tired of looking. It was 
not on my beat. 

Columbine. You will never find him. He 
knows you are looking for him. When he sees you 
coming round the corner of the street he runs away 
round the other corner. He runs quicker than you. 
Nobody runs so quickly as he does. 

The Policeman. I saw the end of his wand 
yesterday. It was quite white. It was as white as 
the milk in the pails. 

Columbine. The milk in the pails is not 
always white. Sometimes it is yellow. But his 
wand is white. He hits people with it and he runs 
away. He runs so fast nobody can catch him. 

The Policeman. I saw the spangles of his 



VIII THE BLUE HARLEQUIN 83 

clothes the day before yesterday. They were all 
gold. I looked again and I thought they were 
silver spangles. I thought his clothes were red at 
first. Afterwards they seemed to be green as leaves 
in the orchard they cut down. 

Columbine. Why did they cut it down ? 

The Policeman. Because it was green. 
There are too many green orchards. 

Columbine. He changes his clothes so quickly 
nobody knows what he has got on. 

The Policeman. His clothes are like the 
scales of fishes. They are like the scales of grey 
fishes in the old pond. The old pond is full of 
fishes. It ought to be dredged. 

Columbine. Nobody will ever dredge the old 
pond. The children fish in it. 

The Policeman. His clothes are Hke the 
wings of birds. Like the wings of owls, that fly 
about in the tower, hooting. The tower is full of 
owls. It ought to be pulled down. 

Columbine. Nobody will ever pull down the 
tower. The owls kill the mice. 

The Policeman. His clothes are like red 
sparks. Like the sparks that fly from the horses' 
hoofs in the crooked lane. The crooked lane is 
full of horses. It ought to be made into a field. 

Columbine. It will never be made into a field. 



84 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS viii 

Too many people use the crooked lane. It leads to 
the mill. It is the shortest way to the mill. 

The Policeman. His clothes are like the blue 
pebbles the old women drop into the stream. The 
stream is full of pebbles. It ought to be dried up. 

Columbine. It will never be dried up, because 
the old women wash their clothes in it. It is not 
pebbles they throw into it. It is blue from the 
blue-bag. They throw it in to whiten the 
linen. 

The Policeman. I do not know. It is not 
on my beat. Some people say it is pebbles. Their 
linen is all in holes. It is frayed linen. 

Columbine. His linen is never frayed. 

The Policeman. His clothes hide his linen. 
You cannot tell what colour his clothes are. 
Sometimes they are blue and sometimes they are red. 

Columbine. Some people say they are grey 
clothes — grey like the sand. 

The Policeman. They told me they were 
blue. I am sure his clothes are blue. 

Enter the Clown through the window 

The Clown. I would have brought you some 
sausages. I would have brought you a hundred 
sausages. They are made of pork. The pig was 
killed on a Friday. 



VIII THE BLUE HARLEQUIN 85 

Columbine. Everything always happens on a 
Friday. I was born on a Friday. 

The Clown. I would have brought you more 
sausages than I can eat myself. I would have 
brought you more sausages than you can eat. 

The Policeman. Nobody can eat more than 
a certain amount of sausages. That is why they 
are so sad in this street. I can eat a great many 
sausages. 

Columbine. It is a bad thing to eat too many 
sausages. 

The Clown. It is not right to go into a shop, 
to take away the sausages, and to eat them. The 
shopkeeper called him a thief because he took away 
the sausages. 

The Policeman. It is not on my beat. 

Columbine. He was very hungry. 

The Clown. He had no right to take away 
all the sausages. There were none left for us. If 
he had not taken away all the sausages I could have 
brought them to you. He jumped down the 
chimney. It was cleaned yesterday. He took 
away all the sausages. He took away the sausages I 
would have brought you. I had meant to bring 
them all. 

The Policeman. What colour were his clothes ? 

The Clown. I was so frightened when he took 



86 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS viii 

away the sausages that I did not notice the colour 
of his clothes. I think they were red clothes. 

The Policeman. Were they not blue clothes ? 

The Clown. They may have been blue 
clothes. He jumped down the chimney and drew out 
his knife. It was a steel knife, and there were spots 
on the blade. He cut the string of the sausages 
from the ceiling. They were all huddled together in 
the ceihng like birds . . . Hke birds in the winter. 

Enter the Pantaloon 

The Pantaloon. He has taken away all the 
sausages. I was going to bring you sausages to 
eat. They were hanging from the roof like little 
fat mice. But I am so old — I forget things. Then 
he came with his knife and cut them down. You 
must take him up. He has stolen the sausages. 
They were not his sausages. 

The Policeman. It is not on my beat. What 
colour were his clothes ? 

The Pantaloon. I am so old I forget things. 
I think they were green clothes. 

The Policeman. Were they not blue clothes ? 

The Clown {to the Policeman). You are so cold. 
I will warm you with my poker. It is a red-hot poker. 

The Policeman. Whenever you do that I feel 
strange. [ The Clown rubs him with the poker. 



VIII THE BLUE HARLEQUIN 87 

The Policeman. I will take away your poker. 

I do not like to be made to feel strange so often. 

\_The Clown runs away and jumps through the 

shop window. The Policeman runs after 

him. At that moment the Harlequin — he 

is all blue — darts round the street corner and 

runs off with Columbine. 

The Policeman. He has run away with her. 

They said he would come when I was not looking. 

I shall never catch him. His clothes were blue. 

{To the Pantaloon) I will take you up instead. I 

will say you took the sausages. I will not speak 

the truth. You will speak the truth. You will 

say he took the sausages. But they will not believe 

you. They will believe me. Now you shall come 

with me, along. 

The Pantaloon. I am so old. I feel as if all 
this had happened before. 

The Policeman. I will say it was on my beat. 

\^As he leads off the Pantaloon, the Clown 

jumps out of the window and hits him with 

the red-hot poker. 

The Policeman. Whenever he does that I 

feel strange. 

\^The Pantaloon escapes and fades into the fog. 

Curtain. 



IX 
THE MEMBER FOR LITERATURE 

// having been settled that a Member for " Litera- 
ture " should be elected to the House of Commons^ 
a plebiscite was taken among the members of all 
the literary clubs and societies in London, 

The result was that Mr. M — X B — ^B — M, Mr. 
H — LL C — E, Mr. R — D — D K — p — G, and 
Mr. J — E K. J — E all received exactly the same 
number of votes. In order to settle which of them 
should be chosen^ it was decided that these four 
authors should each in turn address the same 
public meeting^ after which the election should be 
by ballot^ and the author chosen by the audience 
at the meeting should be the Member for 
Literature, 

Scene — A hall at Battersea. On the platform 
are a Chairman, a small Committee^ and the 
four Authors in question, 
88 



IX THE MEMBER FOR LITERATURE 89 

Mr. M — X B — B — M {rises to address the meeting). 
No politician I. 

A Voice from the Back of the Hall. Then 
why the do you come hereto talk politics ? 

Mr. M — X B — B — M. That, gentle public, is 
what I wish carefully to avoid doing. You can 
lead me to the hustings, but you cannot make me 
think — politically. Therefore bear with me a little. 
Examine yourselves and you will see that, were you 
in my position, you would do exactly what I am 
going to do now. Candidature has been thrust 
upon me. I am forced to speak to you, I am indeed 
anxious to speak to you so that you may be able to 
choose one of the three distinguished literary men, 
whom you see before you on this platform, to be 
your Literary Member, and I wish to prevent your 
choice falling upon me. 

I will put before you in chosen sentences, which 
I have carefully arranged beforehand, the reasons 
why I think you should not elect me. I do not 
want to be elected. To elect me would indeed be 
an unfriendly act. Such a choice would not only 
cause me inconvenience, but it would bring to your- 
selves neither profit nor pleasure. Be sure I should 
never think of your interests, be surer still I should 
never attend the tedious sittings at St. Stephen's. I 
have listened to eloquence at the Oxford Union and 



90 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS ix 

to the gentle rhetoric of Cambridge. Not for me 
are the efforts of the half-witted and the wholly 
inarticulate at Westminster, who stammer where 
old Gladstone used to sing. If you have views I 
am not privy to them, and from your sympathies I 
am aloof. I know well enough that you — no more 
than I — care a red farthing whether the label of 
your Member be Liberal or Conservative. What 
you do care for, and what leaves me frigid, is the 
figure whom you can encourage by chaff or vex by 
sarcasm. 

You want to hear that Lloyd-George ought to be 
thrown into a den of Suffragettes — [Hear^ Hear) 
— or that Winston Churchill is good and old. 
[Hear^ Hear.) You want to hear it not adum- 
brated, but said emphatically and without the intro- 
duction of a nuance^ either that Mr. Balfour is in- 
fallible or that he is invincibly ignorant. {Cheers 
and groans. ) 

Now, I care not whether Mr. Balfour be right 
or wrong. I murmur to myself the jest of Pilate, 
and I do not wait for the answer. And as to the 
province of affairs which concerns you here, the 
province of the Budget, the Fiscal Question, 
Home Rule, the House of Lords, the Dis- 
establishment of the Welsh Church, and other 
falbalas, it is for me a vague land into which 



IX THE MEMBER FOR LITERATURE 91 

Leonardo da Vinci never looked forward, and about 
which I have not experienced the first curiosity j 
nor do I care whether Mr. Balfour be inspired by 
an angel or an ape. [Liberal cheers.) 

As to Mr. Asquith's claims, I am just as un- 
decided and just as indifferent. [Conservative cheers,) 
I know nothing about the Education Bill or the 
Children's Bill j I have heard that one of these 
measures will make " Hunt the Slipper " compulsory 
for children under five years old, and that there is 
somewhere a clause being moulded which will pre- 
vent boys over sixteen years of age from playing 
marbles in the public thoroughfares. But since 
before long children will have votes for themselves 
and be represented in Parliament — [cries of " Votes 
for Children ") — we can surely for the present leave 
these perplexing questions gently suspended until 
they shall be dealt with by those whom they more 
nearly concern. [A little boy is carried out struggling 
and waving a megaphone.) 

But you will say — our Imperial Policy ? Well, 
I will be frank, I am in favour of the restoration of 
the Heptarchy. Had I my way even Rutland 
should have, not only Home Rule — [Liberal cheers) 
— but a King, by Divine Right absolute. Of 
course, I wish our present King to remain a 
super-King of all the little Englands, of the 52 (or 



92 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS ix 

is it 365 ? ) counties of England. {Loud cheers.) 
As for the Colonies, blood may be thicker than 
water, but water, happily for us, is broader than 
blood — [loud cheers) — and I have always been thank- 
ful that we are separated from America, and from 
our other high-spirited offsprings, by so broad an 
ocean as the Atlantic. Our Colonies are our 
children. Their place is in the nursery or at school. 
There let us leave them to their ninepins, their 
whipping-tops, their rocking-horses, and their 
marbles. Their exploits can only weary us who are 
their grown-up parents, we who are obliged to read 
their ]tri-monthly reports, and to pay wages which 
we can ill afford for their nurses and their ushers. 

I hear a lady murmuring the words " Budget " 
and " Fiscal Question " — magical words it is true. 
But we need hardly discuss them, because what- 
ever we say or do there will always be a Budget ; 
there will always be a Fiscal Question, and a 
vague alternative to it preached by an indignant and 
sanguine Opposition. 

Whatever our taxes may be, and however we 
have to pay them, they will always have to be paid, 
and I for one shall never pay them with ecstasy. 
[Cheers.) Formerly the poor had the exclusive 
right of paying taxes ; now it is rumoured that the 
rich have usurped that privilege, and so grossly 



IX THE MEMBER FOR LITERATURE 93 

abused it that, the rich having become poorer than the 
poor, the poor must needs pay a super- tax. (Groans 
and cries of " Shame.^^) Well, I only desire that 
there may always be people so much richer than my- 
self that they will pay me cheerfully and generously 
for taking pains to write what few will trouble to 
read. When the day comes that there will be no 
more rich — (Oh, dreadful day !) — Max's occupation 
will be gone, because even were I then to draw flam- 
ing seascapes in coloured chalk on the paving-stones 
of Piccadilly, there will be no one richer than myself 
to drop a bad halfpenny into the saucer which shall 
hang under the card, so needlessly telling the passer- 
by what the pictures themselves proclaim : that the 
artist is blind. 

I think I have now lightly shaken by the hand 
those questions which, as the phrase goes, are at 
issue, and although I have not given you my reasons 
in clauses, headings, and sections, I hope I have 
made it perspicuous to you that I do not wish to be 
a member of Parliament, and that were I to be 
chosen, I should not lift my eye-glass to justify 
your choice ; I would not sacrifice the whifFof a 
cigarette for all the perfumes of St. Stephen's. But 
as a postscript, I am in favour of full-dress debates ; 
and by that I mean debates in the House of Lords 
where the Peers are dressed in robe and coronet j 



94 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS ix 

and these debates, were I King of England, should 
be compulsory and frequent. And as one postscript 
leads to another, I will tell you that were a more 
competent Guy Fawkes to blow up the House of 
Commons, and were it never to arise from its ashes, 
I should say «Ouf!" 

[He sits down. Discreet cheers. 

Mr. H — LL C — E {rises). Mr. Chairman, ladies 
and gentlemen, loath as I have always been to 
obtrude upon the public gaze 

A Voice. Why, it's Shakespeare ! 

Another Voice. No, it tain't. It's the Wax 
Bust. 

Mr. H — LL C — E. Loath as I have always 
been 

A Voice. As a Manxman, are you, or are you 
not, in favour of Votes for Women ? 

Mr. H — LL C — E. Loath as I am 

The same Voice. He's not in favour of Votes 
for Women and he's a Manxman ! [J terrific 
blast is blown on toy trumpets and megaphones.) 

Another Voice. Tails for Manx Cats. 

Mr. H — LL C — E. Loath as I am 

Voices. Votes for Women. [Loud uproar — 
some women are ejected.) 

[^fter a hurried confabulation it is settled that 
Mr. R — D — D K — p — G shall address the 



IX THE MEMBER FOR LITERATURE 95 

audience^ and that Mr. H — ll C — E shall 
speak later. 

Mr. R — D — D K — p — G [rises). There was once 
an Aunt-Hill. It was a small Aunt-Hill, and from 
the summit to the base of it the distance was about 
as long as the slip of an E.P. Tent. 

The Aunts were busy. They worked all day 
and sometimes all night. Now when Aunts work 
all night it's worth going to see. The hill grew 
bigger and bigger, and tunnels were burrowed, 
and after some months the Aunts had annexed a 
whole forest. They were pleased with themselves. 

" The sun doesn't set on our Aunt-Hill," said 
one Aunt. 

" Our Aunt-Hill is the key of the Eastern 
forest," said another. The Kingdom of the Aunts 
grew so large that they sent some of their younger 
workers to make Aunt- Hills beyond the forest. 
This they did, and their Aunt-Hills grew big, too. 
Then the Aunts were pleased and said : " We are 
the greatest Aunts in the World." But one of the 
Aunts — he wrote things for the other Aunts to read 
— said : " Take care, you were small once ; and if 
you don't go on working you'll be small again." 
But the Aunts said he was a fool. Then the Aunts 
began to get slack and look on at their little Aunts 
playing at rolling the acorn. 



96 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS ix 

Now in a neighbouring forest a rival Aunt set 
up a hill and began training an army. 

Then the Aunt who wrote things said : " Take 
care, these new Aunts will grow strong and take 
away your Aunt-Hill." But the Aunts didn't 
listen, they went on looking at the Aunts playing 
at rolling the acorn. And one of the leading Aunts 
said : " He's a scaremonger, don't hsten. He's a 
'Jingaunt.' It's Unauntish to say such things." 
So nobody cared, and ithe new Aunts came and 
took the old Aunts' Aunt-Hill and made them all 
into slaves. 

[Mr. R — D — D K — P — G sits down. (Cheers.) 

Mr. J— e K. J— e (rises). Mr. Chairman, 
ladies and gentlemen 

A Voice. Does your mother know you're out ? 

Mr. J — E K. J — E. Yes, but my mother-in-law 
doesn't. (Terrific cheers.) Gentlemen, I don't 
think I need say any more. I'm the only man so 
far who has said to you a single word you've 
understood. (Cheers,) So I think I'll let well alone. 
My politics are Home Rule at Home, and down 
with Mothers-in-Law. (Renewed cheering.) 

[Mr. J — E K, J — E sits down. 
\_ After brief consultation on the platform^ Mr. 
H — LL C — E rises again. 

Mr. H — LL C — E. Loath as I am 



IX THE MEMBER FOR LITERATURE 97 

Many Women. What about Votes for 
Women ? 

[ There is an uproar ; a scuffle and a fight. It 

is impossibU to continue the business^ so the 

question as to who shall be elected is put 

to the Meeting. The people proceed to vote by 

ballot. The votes are then counted by the 

Committee in a room adjoining the platform. 

After an interval the Chairman comes on to 

the platform. 

The Chairman. Ladies and gentlemen, 1 

will now have the pleasure of reading out the result 

of the Election. The figures are as follows : — 



Mr. J— e K. J— e (elected) 
Mr. R — D — D K — p — G . 
Mr. M— X B— B— m 
Mr. H— ll C— e . 



333 
12 

3 



{The Meeting breaks up amidst terrific cheers. 
Curtain. 



CALIGULA'S PICNIC 

Scene. — A large banqueting table in the centre of a 
bridge^ which stretches for three miles between 
Puteoli and Baia. The Emperor Caligula 
is reclining in the place of honour. There are 
hundreds of guests. 

RuFUS (an intensely eager ^ bearded man to his 
neighbour Proteus, a dandy). As I was saying, 
the whole point of the question is this : all diseases 
come from the secretion in the blood of certain 
poisons. Now since we imbibe these poisons from 
certain foodstuffs, what I say is — Cut off the poison 
at the supply. 

Proteus [helping himself to roast boar with 
stuffing). Yes, yes, perfectly. 

RuFUS. Cut off the poison at the supply. 
Prevent ; don't try to cure when it's too late. 
You follow me ? 

Proteus [absently). Exactly. [He gives himself 
an additional helping of roast boar.) 
98 



X CALIGULA'S PICNIC 99 

RuFUS. But there you are, helping yourself to 
poison again. (Rufus gives up Proteus and turns 
to his other neighbour.) 

Hygerius {on Proteus's right^ an aged Senator), 
May I trouble you for the peacock ? 

Proteus. I beg your pardon. {He passes the 
peacock.) 

Hygerius. I suppose these peacocks are im- 
ported. 

Proteus {not interested). I suppose so. 

Hygerius. Now what I say is, the land's the 
question. 

Proteus {foreseeing a discourse on political economy). 
The General is trying to catch your eye. 

Hygerius. Where ? Where ? I don't see him. 

Proteus. Right at the other end of the table. 
{To his vis-a-vis^ Demophilus, an officer.) Were 
you lucky yesterday ? 

Demophilus. No, I lost. They told me 
Chilon was a certainty. 

Proteus. Ah ! Chilon. 

Demophilus. He didn't do himself justice. 

Proteus. Over-trained ? 

Hygerius {to his vis-a-vis^ Petronius, a fashion- 
able philosopher). Now you no doubt agree with 
me that nowadays the whole problem of agri- 
culture 



100 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS x 

Petronius [upsetting a large bowl of wine on the 
table on purpose). A thousand pardons ! It was too 
awkward of me. 

[^Slaves come and mop up the mess. 

Severus [a literary man^ sitting on Hygerius's 
left^ to Petronius). "Spilt wine shall buy the 
favour of the Gods," as Particus says. 

Petronius. Have you seen Cossatius's play ? 

Severus. Yes, it's clever, but 

Hygerius. That kind of play ought not to 
be tolerated. It undermines the principles of 
morality. 

Severus. Morals have nothing to do with art. 

Hygerius. I repeat that these kinds of plays are 
the ruin of the Empire. 

Petronius. I see you are on the side of the 
" Extensionists." 

Hygerius. I don't know what you mean by an 
" Extensionist," but if you mean a Roman and a 
patriot 

Petronius. No, I mean a Greek and a swindler. 

Proteus. Excellent eels — try them. 

RuFUS. Let me beg you not to touch them ; 
they are full of poison. 

Demophilus [alarmed). Poison ! Who's 
poisoned them ? 

Petronius. Rufus means they give you gout. 



X CALIGULA'S PICNIC loi 

Proteus. I once knew a man who ate twenty- 
seven eels for a bet. 

Demophilus {really interested). Oh ! Did he 
win ? 

Proteus. Yes ; but he died afterwards. Hush ! 
the speeches are beginning. 

Petronius. Oh dear ! Oh dear ! 
\The Prefect of Puteoli rises farther up the table. 

The Prefect. Friends and citizens, and more 
especially, citizens of Puteoli and Baiae : It is with 
feelings of peculiar emotion that I rise to propose 
that toast, which of all toasts is the nearest to the 
heart and leaps most readily to the lips of a Roman 
— I mean, of course, the toast of our beloved 
Emperor. I may say that in all the vast extent of 
this Empire, of which we are so justly proud, the 
Emperor has no more loyal subjects than those of 
Baiae and — {cheers) — of Puteoli. [Cheers.) Although 
in the past we of PuteoH may not always have been 
able to see eye to eye with our neighbours of Baiae, 
in matters of local administration, to-day, happily, 
all such rivalry has ended. And to whom is this 
due ? To whom but the Emperor, who, with his 
knowledge of the Roman heart, has had the happy, 
the graceful, nay, more, the truly Imperial and the 
truly Roman idea of joining the two cities by this 
elegant and monumental bridge. [Loud cheers.) 



102 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS x 

We of Puteoli are not quick to forget the benefit 
we have received in the past from the Imperial 
Family. And some of us w^ho are here present 
remember that auspicious and never-to-be-forgotten 
day when the Emperor*s illustrious father, the ever- 
memorable Germanicus — {loud and prolonged cheers) 
— I say many of us here present will recall that 
thrice -memorable occasion when the illustrious 
Germanicus — {loud cheers) — paid us a visit. 
Romans, I have no wish to rake up things which 
are better forgotten ; I have no desire to abuse the 
ashes of him who, whatever his faults and his fail- 
ings may have been, is now for ever beyond the 
reach of our recrimination. We Romans have a 
proverb which says : " Of the dead nothing but 
good " — (^cheers) — and you, citizens of Puteoli and 
Baiae, have ever strictly observed, both by precept 
and by practice, the wisdom that has been handed 
down to us in the popular phrases of the Roman 
people. {Cheers.) Therefore, it is with no fear of 
being misunderstood, and in no carping or unjust 
spirit, that I say that the example which our beloved 
Emperor Caligula is daily setting us, both in peace 
and in war, and in all the arts and graces of life — 
this example is, I say, as it were, heightened when 
we — and we of Puteoli and Baiae are especially 
sensible of the fact — when we think of the short- 



X CALIGULA'S PICNIC 103 

comings and the mistakes of the late and unfortunate 
Tiberius — {hisses and groans) — shortcomings and 
mistakes to which our present Emperor put so swift 
an end, and out of whose ashes he bade our Empire 
and our Government, our internal affairs and our 
foreign policy, rise rejuvenated and splendid like the 
Phoenix. {Cheers.) Citizens, I will detain you no 
longer. All I will say is this : so long as we have 
at the head of us one who is the pattern of what a 
Roman gentleman should be, one who is at the 
same time the elder brother and the father of his 
people, so long as this shall be, so long will the 
Roman Empire, throughout all its length and 
breadth, act together in that same spirit of fraternal 
love and unity, bound by ties as strong as that with 
which our Emperor has to-day united and linked 
the people of Baiae to the people of Puteoli. 
Citizens, I propose the health of the divine 
Emperor. {Loud cheers. The toast is drunk with 
enthusiasm.) 

Hygerius. a first-rate speech. 

The Prefect of Bai^ rises. Citizens, it is 
with the keenest sense of my unfitness to so exalted 
a task that I rise to propose the toast which is 
second on our list, that toast which of all others, 
with the exception of that which we have just 
drunk, is most grateful to Roman ears, namely, the 



104 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS x 

Army. {Cheers.) Although not a soldier myself, 
my heart is with the Army j but I will go farther, 
I will say that all of us, whatever our avoca- 
tions may be, whether we be lawyers, merchants, 
engineers, painters, poets, philosophers, are in a 
sense soldiers of the Emperor. {Cheers.) And Peace, 
citizens, has its battles as well as War. {Loud 
cheers.) To-day we are gathered together to cele- 
brate one of those battles — a battle which has 
ended in a triumph. {Cheers.) [Demophilus 
{aside). What battle ?] I allude to the completion 
of this handsome bridge — {cheers) — which is a not- 
able — I may even say an unparalleled example — of 
the triumph of man's will over the elements. As 
the immortal poet Camerinus — {cheers) — has said : 

O'er vanquished Nature Man shall spread his sway, 
And force the fretful ocean to obey. 

{Cheers.) 

And while the utmost credit is due to the skill and 

patience with which the engineers, Demonax and 

Hegias, of Corinth, have executed their stupendous 

task, still greater praise is due to the Emperor, in 

whose fertile brain the great idea had its origin, and 

without whose unceasing aid and constant interest, 

it could never have been completed. {Cheers.) We 

of Baiae know how keen was that interest, how 

valuable that aid, and we will never forget it. I 



X CALIGULA'S PICNIC 105 

have said, citizens, we are all of us in a sense soldiers, 
and it is a sight like this, an occasion such as to- 
day's, that brings home to every Roman the self- 
sacrifice, the patience, the stubborn will, and the 
dogged persistence — qualities all of them essentially 
military — of the Roman race. I therefore propose 
the health of the Army, coupled with the name 
of its glorious Commander-in-Chief, the Emperor. 
(Loud cheers. The toast is drunk.) 

Severus. He misquoted Camerinus. 

[yf Pr^torian Officer rises. 

The Praetorian Officer. Citizens, my 
trade is to speak and not to act — I mean to act 
and not to speak. [Loud cheers.) I am a humble 
particle of what has so rightly been called the 
great dumb one. [Cheers.) I thank you all 
very much for drinking the last toast, and I in my 
turn have great pleasure in proposing the toast which 
comes next on the list, namely, the toast of Litera- 
ture. [Cheers.) I am not much of a literary man 
myself, but I greatly enjoy reading the descrip- 
tion of battles in the works of that poet who, 
though not a Roman by birth, is practically a 
Roman — I mean Homer — [cheers) — and also in 
the great epic of our Roman Homer, I mean 
Camerinus. [Loud cheers.) I propose the toast 
of Literature, coupled with that of the divine 



io6 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS x 

Emperor, who, as we all know, is a first-rate author 
himself. [Cheers.) 

[Erotianus, an elderly poet^ rises to reply. 
Erotianus. Citizens, great and immortal 
names have been mentioned to-day. Homer, Camer- 
inus, have lent by the very mention of their names 
a diviner light to this already illustrious occasion. 
Nor has our gallant friend in his masterly oration 
failed to remind us of the talents, the brilHant and 
exceptional literary gifts, of our noble Master. 
[Cheers.) I am the last person who should address 
you on this theme. [Cries of No^ No.) We had 
hoped that Seneca — [cheers) — whose verses are for 
ever on our lips, would be present. Unfortunately 
a bad cold has detained him in Rome, i^sculapius 
has conquered the Muses — [cries of Shame) — and in- 
stead of a brilliant Hterary light you have the flicker 
of a new artisan in the field of letters. [Cries 
of No^ No.) I am, if I may say so, no more than 
a humble shepherd on the slopes of Parnassus. 
But, citizens, those slopes are so high and so 
wide that there is room on them for the greatest, 
such as Homer and Ovid — [cheers) — and ror the 
more humble but none the less painstaking, such 
as Virgil and myself. [Cheers.) I will now pro- 
ceed to read to you a short epic in six cantos which 
I have prepared for this occasion. [Cheers. He 



X CALIGULA*S PICNIC 107 

clears his throat.) It is called "The Bridge." 

[Cheers.) 

[ The Emperor makes a signal^ upon which a regi- 
ment of Pratorians^ concealed in a neighbouring 
tent^ rush among the guests armed with swords 
and sharp tridents^ and proceed to toss them 
into the sea. The meal breaks up in confusion. 
Some of the guests escape^ but a large number 
are drowned.^ including Erotianus. 

Curtain. 



XI 
THE AULIS DIFFICULTY 

Scene. — Agamemnon's tent at Aulis, Discovered : 
Agamemnon seated at a camp table writing. 

Enter Iphigenia 

Iphigenia. Do you want to speak to me, papa ? 

Agamemnon [nervously.) Yes, yes, a moment. 
[A pause.) 

Iphigenia. Well ? 

Agamemnon. Sit down — on that chair — it's 
more comfortable there. ... I . . . er . . . 
[A pause.) 

Iphigenia. If you've got nothing particular to 
say, papa, I'll go, if you don't mind ; because 
mamma wants me to help her with the dinner. The 
cook is quite helpless 

Agamemnon. Wait a minute. I do want to 
speak to you very particularly. . . . [J pause.) . . . 
It's a lovely day again to-day. 
io8 



XI THE AULIS DIFFICULTY 109 
Iphigenia. Really, papa 



Agamemnon. It's not so irrelevant as you 
think. You see, there's not a breath of wind. 

Iphigenia. I know. They say it's quite 
impossible for you to start. 

Agamemnon. We shall have been here two 
months next Tuesday. 

Iphigenia. You mean next Saturday. 

Agamemnon. Tuesday or Saturday, it's all the 
same. 

Iphigenia. It's a mercy we did stop here. 
Mamma says that your linen was in a dreadful state, 
and that if she hadn't come out she doesn't know 
how you would have managed. 

Agamemnon. Yes, I don't say that the stay 
hasn't been of some use ; but now it is absolutely 
essential that we should get to Troy. 

Iphigenia. Why don't you start to-day ? 

Agamemnon. Whenever we put to sea there's 
either no wind at all, or a gale which drives us 
straight back home. 

Iphigenia. It is very tiresome, but it can't be 
helped, can it ? 

Agamemnon. Well, that's just it. I'm afraid 
it can be helped, 

Iphigenia. What do you mean, papa ? 

Agamemnon. To cut a long story short, 



no DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xi 

Calchas consulted the Oracle this morning, and it 
appears, he says, I mean the Oracle said, or rather 
the goddess 

Iphigenia. Which goddess ? 

Agamemnon. Artemis. 

Iphigenia. Oh, she's impossible. 

Agamemnon. Well, as I told you, Calchas 
says that it is Artemis who is causing the delay by 
sending us adverse winds, and 

Iphigenia. Can't something be done ? 

Agamemnon. That is precisely the point. 
The goddess has, through the Oracle, suggested a 
way out of the difficulty, and it concerns you. 

Iphigenia. Me ? What can I have to do 
with it ? 

Agamemnon. Now, my dearest Iphigenia, I 
want you to be reasonable. You always were 
a sensible girl, and I want you to bring all your 
good sense to bear on this ... in this . . . er 
. . . trying occasion. 

Iphigenia. I don't understand. 

Agamemnon. I will go straight to the point. 
Artemis says that we shall never leave Aulis unless 
you consent to go through the form of being 
sacrificed to her. 

Iphigenia. What do you mean by "going 
through the form " ? 



XI THE AULIS DIFFICULTY in 

Agamemnon. I mean that in all probability 
... in fact, quite certainly, the sacrifice would be 
purely a formal one, and that there is every chance 
... in fact, I may say it is almost certain that one 
of the other gods or goddesses would intervene at 
the last moment and prevent the sacrifice from being 
fatal. 

Iphigenia. You mean to say that there is not 
the slightest chance of my being killed — that it's 
only a farce ? 

Agamemnon. I won't go so far as that . . . 
but I will say that as far as we know every pre- 
cedent in the past 

Iphigenia. Oh, bother the precedents. What 
I want to know is this : Is there the slightest 
chance of my being really sacrificed? 

Agamemnon. It is highly improbable, of course ; 
only you must consent ; you must behave exactly as 
if you were going to be sacrificed ; you must express 
your entire willingness to lay down your life for 
your country ; and knowing what a patriotic, 
obedient, filial child you are, I am certain this will 
be a positive pleasure to you. 

Iphigenia. I won't. 

Agamemnon. You mean you won't even pre- 
tend to 

Iphigenia, I won't have anything to do with 



112 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xi 

it at all — I think it's monstrous, and Pm sure mamma 
will agree with me. 

Agamemnon. My dearest child, let me beg of you 
not to say a word about this to your mother just yet. 

Iphigenia. Of course I shall tell her. [Enter 
Clyttemnestra.) Here is mamma. Mamma ■ 

Clyt^emnestra. What is all this ? 

Iphigenia. Papa says I must be sacrificed to 
Artemis, in order that they may have a smooth pas- 
sage to Troy, and to prevent Ajax being sea-sick. I 
say I won't. [She begins to cry.) 

Clyt^mnestra [taking her in her arms). Of 
course you shan't, my love — my darling. [To 
Agamemnon) What is this ridiculous nonsense ? 

Agamemnon. I assure you it is not my doing. 
I merely repeated what Calchas had said. He con- 
sulted the Oracle, and it appears that Artemis is 
vexed : she is, in fact, very much displeased. She 
says we shall never leave Aulis unless Iphigenia con- 
sents to go through the form of being sacrificed — 
of course it's only a matter of form — but she must 
consent. 

Clytjemnestra. I see. As long as I'm here 
my child shall not degrade herself by being a party 
to any ridiculous farce of this nature. I don't care 
a bit if we do stay here. You ought never to have 
come here for one thing. I always said it was 



XI THE AULIS DIFFICULTY 113 

absurd from the first — ^just because of Helen's silly 
escapade. If you can't get a fair wind you'll have 
to go home ; but you shan't touch Iphigenia. 

Enter a Maid 

TheMaid(^^ Clyt^mnestra). Thecookwants 
to know whether the fish are to be boiled or fried. 

Clyt^mnestra [angrily), I told her fried. 
[To Agamemnon) I must go and look after her. 
I'll be back in a moment. 

[^Extt CLYTiEMNESTRA. 

Agamemnon. There, you see what you've done. 
You've set your mother against the whole plan. 

Iphigenia [crying). I hope I have. Of course, 
if you want to kill me, please do . . . just [sobbing) 
as if I were a sheep. 

Agamemnon. My dear child, do be calm. 
Who ever talked of killing 

Enter Calchas 

Agamemnon. She won't hear of it. 

Calchas. My dear child, please be sensible and 
think of the interests at stake. Remember you are 
grown up, and we grown-up people have to face 
these things. 

Iphigenia. I don't care what you say, I won't 
be sacrificed — I won't be killed like a sheep. 

I 



114 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xi 

Calchas. Even if the worst came to the worst, 
I promise you you would feel no pain. I assure 
you we have reached a pitch of perfection in the 
working of these things which makes all accidents 
impossible. Besides, think of the honour and the 
glory. 

Agamemnon. And it's not as if she would be 
killed really. 

Calchas. It's extremely improbable ; but even 
if she were to lose consciousness and not recover, I 
am sure most girls would envy her. Just think, 
your statue would be put up in every city in Greece. 

Agamemnon. All the poets would celebrate her. 

Calchas. You see it's not as if she were 
married. 

Agamemnon. She has always refused every one. 

Calchas. And now it's too late. 

Agamemnon. Girls are so independent nowadays. 

Calchas. They think nothing of tradition, 
country, or of the respect they owe their parents. 
They are ungrateful. 

Agamemnon. They never think of what they 
owe the goddesses. In my time . . . 

Enter Odysseus 

Iphigenia. I don't care what you say. I won't 
be sacrificed. {She bursts into tears.) 



XI THE AULIS DIFFICULTY 115 

[Odysseus whispers to Agamemnon and 
Calchas to withdraw. They go out. 

Odysseus. And how is our little Iphigenia 
to-day ? 

Iphigenia [drying her eyes). Quite well, thank 
you ; only papa wants to kill me. 

Odysseus. Kill you, my dear child ! I assure 
you you are mistaken. Nobody, and least of all 
your father, could dream of such a thing. You are 
the Hfe and soul of the expedition. It was only this 
morning I wrote to Penelope to tell her how well 
you were looking and what a difference it made to 
all of us your being here. 

Iphigenia. Papa wants me to be sacrificed. 

Odysseus. You can't have understood your 
father. Let me explain it to you. You know 
what Artemis is ; she's a charming goddess — quite 
charming — only she's touchy. Well, she happens 
to be very much put out at this moment by the 
attention that has been paid to the other goddesses ; 
and by a very regrettable oversight her sacrifice has 
been neglected once or twice lately. Of course she 
is put out ; but, believe me, the situation only 
requires tact — ^just a little tact . . . and we all 
want you to help us. . . . You see if you don't 
help us we are lost, and the whole expedition may 
be ruined, all just for the want of a little tact at the 



ii6 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xi 

right moment. Now, nobody can help us as well as 
you can. You see Artemis has taken a peculiar 
fancy to you. She admires you enormously. - I 
happen to know this on the very best authority. 
She thinks you are far more beautiful than your 
Aunt Helen. At the same time she is just a shade 
hurt that you never take any notice of her. Now, 
what we want you to do is to consent to our 
stratagem : a delicate piece of flattery which will 
soothe Artemis and make everything all right. All 
you will have to do is to wear the most beautiful 
dress — white and silver — and a band of wrought 
gold studded with rubies round your head, and to 
walk with your wonderful hair reaching almost 
to your feet, in a procession of weeping maidens 
to the Temple ; and there, after the usual prayers 
and chants, you will sing a hymn to Artemis, 
especially composed for the occasion, to a flute 
accompaniment ; then, in the gaze of all the crowd, 
you will kneel down before the altar, and Artemis, 
flattered and pleased, will carry you ofF in a cloud, 
and substitute a sheep or something else for 
you. Every one will praise you ; you will have 
had all the amusement of the festival, all the glory 
and honour of the sacrifice, and none of the in- 
convenience. 

Iphigenia [pensively). It would be rather fun. 



XI THE AULIS DIFFICULTY 117 

Are you sure I shouldn't risk being killed really ? 
Calchas said I probably would. 

Odysseus. Calchas knows nothing about it at 
all. I promise you that it's just as safe as if you 
were going to sing at the festival of Bacchus. 

Iphigenia. But what will happen to me after- 
wards ? 

Odysseus. That must be a secret between you 
and me. Artemis has arranged that a charming 
young man shall carry you away. I need not 
mention his name, as you know it too well. It 
begins with an A. But the marriage must remain 
a secret until after the siege. 

Iphigenia. All right, I will do it. I mean I 
will pretend to consent, but there must be no ques- 
tion of its really coming off. That you must swear. 

Odysseus. I swear we shall sacrifice a sheep 
instead of you, or if the worst comes to the worst 
Achilles' slave, who is so like you. 

Iphigenia. And then I shall really marry 
Achilles. 

Enter Clyt^mnestra 

Odysseus {to Clyt^emnestra). It's all settled ; 
only don't discuss it with Agamemnon. He doesn't 
quite know how to deal with goddesses. He is 
— you forgive me saying so — a little bit heavy. 



ii8 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xi 

Clyivemnestra [to Iphigenia). You don't 
mean to say youVe consented. I forbid it. ... I 
am your mother, and I positively forbid you to do 
any such thing. 

Iphigenia. I'm of age. I'm old enough to 

judge what I can do and what I can't do. It's my 

duty, and it's a question of principle ; and if I 

choose to be sacrificed, nobody has the right to 

prevent me. And I do choose. The one thing 

I've always longed for all my life has been to die 

for my country. 

\^Exit Iphigenia In a passion. 

[Odysseus looks at Clyt^mnestra and smiles, 

CLYTiEMNESTRA. Serpent ! 

Curtain. 



XII 
DON, JUAN'S FAILURE 

LucASTA. My mother will be down directly, 
if you don't mind waiting. 

Don Juan. On the contrary, I could wait a 
hundred years in the company of one whom I know 
not whether she be a goddess or a mortal. 

Lucasta {blushing). It's very kind of you to say 
so, sir, but I am very busy this morning. I am 
wanted at the farm to see about the cows. 

Don Juan. Fortunate cows ! But cannot 
they wait a moment ? Surely there is no desperate 
hurry? 

Lucasta. I am late already, sir, and I am loath 
to keep people waiting. 

Don Juan. How nice, how considerate and 
charming of you. I adore those who are loath to 
keep others waiting. It is the revelation of a 
delightful nature. I am sure we shall be friends. 
I feel as if we had always known one another. 
119 



120 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xn 

LucASTA. Oh, sir, but I do not even know 
your name ! I only know you are the Spanish 
nobleman who was expected. 

Don Juan {proudly). My name is one you 
may perhaps have heard of. I am Don Juan of 
Seville. 

LucASTA. One of our ponies is called Don 
Juan — the old one. It takes the children out in a 
cart 'y but he's lame now. 

Don Juan {vexed). You must let me give you 
a horse, a fiery steed fit to carry you, for Fm sure 
you ride like Diana, and you shall call that Don 
Juan. 

LucASTA. Thank you, sir, but my mother says 
one must never accept gifts from strangers. 

Don Juan. But I am not a stranger. You 
must not look upon me as a stranger. You must 
look upon me as a friend. 

LucASTA. Mistress Markham says that one has 
no right to call people friends until one has known 
them for seven years. 

Don Juan. Who is Mistress Markham ? 

LucASTA. She is our governess. 

Don Juan. She knows nothing about it. 
Believe me, all governesses are fools. 

LucASTA. Not Mistress Markham. She 
knows everything — even the Greek irregular verbs. 



XII DON JUAN'S FAILURE 121 

Don Juan. Well, let us admit, then, that there 
is only one thing she doesn't know. 

LucASTA. What, sir ? 

Don Juan. The birth, the growth, and the 
nature of our friendship. May not I claim to be a 
friend ? You surely do not wish to regard me as 
an enemy ? 

Luc AST A {after reflecting). Well, I suppose 
there's no harm ; because I do not suppose it is 
wrong to make friends with old people. 

Don Juan {laughing uneasily). I am old enough 
to claim friendship with you ; but I am not so old 
as all that. Do I look so very old ? 

LucASTA {blushing). Oh no, sir. I never 
meant that, I'm sure. All I meant was that you 
were old compared with my friends. 

Don Juan. Have you many friends ? 

LucASTA. Oh yes ! There's Harry, who has 
just left school \ and Philip, he is a student at Oxford j 
and Valentine, he is about to join the Yeomanry ; 
and my cousin Dick, he is my greatest friend. 

Don Juan. How old is he ? 

Luc AST A. He left school six months ago. He's 
going to be a great soldier, like Sir Philip 
Sidney. 

Don Juan. Oh ! and are you very fond of 
him ? 



122 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xii 

LucASTA. Very. He plays tennis better than 
any one. Do you play tennis, sir ? 

Don Juan. Fm afraid I don't. 

LucASTA. Bowls ? 

Don Juan. Fm afraid not either. 

LucASTA. Rounders ? 

Don Juan. I'm afraid I don't play any games 
except draughts and lansquenet. 

LucASTA. Lansquenet and draughts are in- 
door games. We don't count them. Cousin Dick 
says they are all very well for women. 

Don Juan. You see, I never have time for 
that kind of thing. 

LucASTA. Are you an officer, sir ? 

Don Juan. Oh no ! 

LucASTA. A sailor ? 

Don Juan. No ; I hate the sea. 

LucASTA. I suppose you are a discoverer. 
Spaniards are such great travellers. 

Don Juan. No ; I have only travelled in 
Europe and for pleasure. 

LucASTA. How stupid of me, sir. You are, of 
course, a diplomatist. 

Don Juan. No ; I am merely a gentleman at 
large. 

LucASTA. Do you mean you follow no 
profession ? 



XII DON JUAN'S FAILURE 123 

Don Juan. No profession exactly, but many 
occupations. 

LucASTA. But how do you contrive to pass 
the time ? 

Don Juan. Well, you see, we Spaniards are 
different from you English. We are less practical, 
and more — what shall I say ? — more fiery, more 
impatient, more romantic. We consider it quite 
enough for a man who is a Spaniard and a noble- 
man as I am, nay, more, we consider that such a 
man can have no nobler occupation than to devote 
his life, his heart, his brain to the constant and 
daily service and worship of a beautiful woman. 

LucASTA. Oh, I see ; you are engaged to be 
married. 

Don Juan. No, alas ! 

LucASTA. Haven't you got enough money to 
marry on ? 

Don Juan. It's not that : my purse is equal to 
my station. 

LucASTA. Her parents, I suppose, have refused 
their consent. 

Don Juan. I have not yet asked them. 

LucASTA. I wish you all success, sir. 

Don Juan. But you don't understand, most 
charming and gracious of Englishwomen. It is 
true that I love. I am consumed with a love which 



124 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xii 

will never diminish nor die, a love that burns w^ithin 
me like a raging fever ; but I have not yet dared to 
speak it. The divine and adorable creature whom 
I worship does not suspect the cruel plight I am in. 
She ignores my flame. 

LucASTA. Why do you not tell her, sir ? 

Don Juan. Ah ! That is so easily said ! 
But what if she were to take offence ? What if I 
were by a too sudden and abrupt declaration of the 
passion that consumes me to nip in the bud all 
chance of my love finding a response in her breast ? 
What if I by a too hasty word were to shatter my 
hopes for ever ? 

LucASTA. Is she so very young ? Pardon me, 
sir, if I am wrong in asking. 

Don Juan. You could never do wrong. No 
fault could ever mar those faultless lips. (Lucasta 
blushes.) I will tell you she is very young, and I 
have only seen her once. 

Lucasta. Then it was a case of love at first 
sight ? 

Don Juan. Yes, but love is a weak word to 
express the great wave which has carried me away. 

Lucasta. They say that love at first sight is 
often mutual. 

Don Juan. I pray Heaven that it may be 
so in this case ; but I doubt if she has guessed 



XII DON JUAN'S FAILURE 125 

my sweet and bitter secret. She is so young, so 
innocent. 

LucASTA. Is she fair or dark, sir ? 

Don Juan. Her hair is the colour of your 
hair, and, like yours, it has the glitter of sunshine, 
with miraculous shades and adorable crisping curls 
like those that wreathe your brow. Her skin is 
like yours j that is to say, a rose lately sprinkled 
with dew. Her eyes are the colour of your eyes ; 
that is to say, they have the radiance of the azure 
sky and depth of the summer sea. Her nose is the 
pictured semblance of your nose, delicate as a flower, 
tip-tilted, transparent, enchanting. Her lips are like 
your lips ; they put to shame ripe cherries, red roses, 
and rubies; and her teeth are Hke your teeth, more 
perfect than Orient pearls. She has your carriage, 
your grace and rhythm of movement, the stately 
poise of your head, and the divine contour of your 
form. She has the radiance of your smile and the 
laughing music of your speech. 

LucASTA. It is very kind of you, sir, to com- 
pare me to so well-favoured a person. 

Don Juan. I am not comparing you to her. I 
am comparing her to you. Until this morning I did 
not know that such beauty could Hve and breathe. 

LucASTA. Did you see her this morning for 
the first time ? 



126 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xii 

Don Juan. Yes, it was this morning ; to- 
day is the fatal day that has changed the earth for me 
to a giddy ladder suspended between heaven and 
hell. 

LucASTA. Then I know who it is. It is 
Electra Harrington our neighbour. You saw her 
on your way here. 

Don Juan. Believe me, it was no Electra 
Harrington. Electra Harrington would be a 
wrinkled hag in comparison with the goddess whom 
I worship. But tell me, do you think I might dare 
to plead my cause ? Do you think there is the 
frailest hope of her listening to my suit ? 

Luc AST a. Why not ? I am sure, sir, any girl 
would feel very much flattered at the attentions of a 
nobleman such as yourself. 

Don Juan. But you said I was old. 

LucASTA. Oh, sir, I told you I never meant 
that. All I meant was that you were grown up 
and a man, and not a schoolboy like Philip. 

Don Juan. Then you think that a maiden 
could look at me without disgust ? 

Lucasta. Oh, sir ! 

Don Juan. Even if at first I found her heart 
hard as adamant, if she will only let me plead my 
cause I feel certain I can soften it. That is all I 
ask — a hearing. 



XII DON JUAN'S FAILURE 127 

LucASTA. I should tell her at once, sir, in your 
place. Girls are often bashful. [She blushes.) 

Don Juan. Then there is another grisly fear 
that haunts me. She may already have given her 
heart away. She may already have a betrothed. 

LucASTA. That is not likely if it's any of the 
girls in our county. They are all so young ; and 
the others are married — except Dianeme, and then 
she's a fright, so it could hardly be her. 

Don Juan. Then you think I ought to be 
bold ? 

LucASTA {clapping her hands). Oh yes, do be 
bold ! 

[Don Juan seizes Lucasta and endeavours to 
kiss her. She gives him a very smart box on 
the ears. 

Lucasta. Sir, what does this unpardonable 
liberty mean ? I thought you were a gentleman 
and a nobleman. 

Don Juan (^«^^//«^), Forgive me. I thought you 
had understood. I thought you must have guessed 
— don't interrupt me, only hear me — I thought 
you must have known when I described to you my 
heart's desire ; when I told you that you had her 
every feature ; but I was mad. It was unpardon- 
able of me ; but hear me all the same, Lucasta ; 
adorable, lovely, perfect Lucasta, I love you ; I 



128 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xii 

love you passionately. I ofFer you my hand, my 
life, my fortune. 

LucASTA. Please get up, sir. I hate men who 
kneel — they look so silly ; and if you are going 
to talk nonsense any more I shall go upstairs. 

Don Juan (rising). Then you mean that I 
may not even hope ? 

LucASTA (bursting into peals of laughter). For- 
give me, but I can't help it. 

Don Juan. It is really no laughing matter. 
[He draws his sword.) I am ready to stab myself. 

LucASTA [still shaking with laughter). Please 
do not be so foolish. Why, you're much older 
than my father. Here is my mother. 

Enter the Countess of Wessex, a handsome lady. 
She curtsies deeply 

LucASTA [aside to her mother). Oh ! he's so 
funny. 

[She runs away^ vainly suppressing a peal of 
laughter. 

Curtain. 



XIII 

CALPURNIA'S DINNER-PARTY 

Scene. — A room in Julius Caesar's house. Dis- 
covered : Julius Caesar and Calpurnia. 

Calpurnia. Catullus has accepted, so that will 
make us thirteen. 

C^SAR. I won't sit down thirteen to dinner ; 
it isn't fair to one's guests. 

Calpurnia. What nonsense ! They none of 
them mind. 

Cjesar. I beg your pardon. I happen to know 
that Cicero is intensely superstitious. Of course I 
don't mind personally, but one must think of others. 

Calpurnia. Then what shall we do ? 

CuESAR. Ask some one else. 

Calpurnia. Then you must get another man. 
You are sure to see some one at the Forum. 

Cjesar. I will ask Calvus. 

Calpurnia. How like a man. In the first 
place he is in mourning. 

129 K 



130 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xiii 

C-ffiSAR. Who for ? 
Calpurnia. Quintilla, of course. 
Cjesar. We need not go into that. 
Calpurnia. He won't go anywhere — at 
present — but even if it wasn't for that, don't you 
see that it would quite spoil the dinner to ask Calvus 
with Catullus ? 
C^SAR. Why ? 

Calpurnia. Because they both write poetry. 
C^SAR. What does that matter ? 
Calpurnia. Of course, if you want to spoil 

the dinner 

C-ffiSAR. Must it be a man ? 
Calpurnia. Yes"*; we have got quite enough 
women. 

CiESAR. Why not ask Atticus ? 
Calpurnia. Then we should have to ask Pilia. 
Cjesar. She hates going out. 
Calpurnia. It is impossible to ask him with- 
out her — and I won't ask her ; she would ruin the 
dinner. Besides, I told you we can't have another 
woman. 

CiESAR. What about Cinna ? 
Calpurnia. Cornelia's got him. She always 
gives a dinner the same night as I do, so as to take 
away the people I want from me. 
C-ffiSAR. I can't think of anybody. 



XIII CALPURNIA'S DINNER-PARTY 131 

Calpurnia. You will see some one at the 
Forum ; but mind you are careful, and don't ask 
some one nobody else knows, or some one whom 
they all hate. 

Cjesar. There's nobody in Rome just now. 

Enter a Slave, with a letter for Calpurnia 

The Slave. They are waiting for a verbal 
answer. 

[Calpurnia takes the letter and reads it, 

Calpurnia. It is from Lucullus ; he wants us 

to dine with him to-night — quite a tiny dinner, he 

says — he wants us to taste some oysters from 

Britain. 

C^SAR. I suppose we can't put off our guests ? 
Calpurnia. Certainly not. It is unlucky. 
{She sits down at a table and writes an answer,) 
It is the sort of thing that's sure to happen. I 
wish you hadn't asked all these people. 
C^SAR. I didn't ask a soul. 
Calpurnia {to the Slave). There's the answer. 
\_The Slave bows and retires. He returns again 
immediately with another letter^ which he gives 
to Calpurnia. 
Calpurnia. Is there an answer ? 
The Slave. The slave is waiting. 
Calpurnia {reading out). " Most illustrious 



132 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xm 

AND CELESTIALLY FAVOURED CaLPURNIA " — it IS 

from the Persian Ambassador — "Pity me. The 
gods are most cruel and unpropitious. Owing to 
the extraordinary carelessness of my private secretary 
I find that I have been engaged for several weeks to 
dine with LucuUus to-night. As I only know him 
slightly, I am sure you will understand that in this 
case I must sacrifice pleasure to duty, and miss a 
brilliant and charming evening. Alas, alas, pity 
me ! — Your slave, Zoroaster Sorhab Jemshid." 
[To the Slave) Say I quite understand. [Exit 
Slave.) Jemshid always, always throws one over. 

Enter the Slave with two letters. He gives 
one to CiESAR and one to Calpurnia 

The Slave. Both waiting for an answer. 

Calpurnia. Who is yours from ? 

C-ffiSAR. Mark Antony. {He reads) "Dear 
old Boy — I am frightfully sorry, but I can't dine 
with you to-night. I have had a tooth pulled out 
this morning, and the doctor says I mustn't go out, 
worse luck. My respects to Calpurnia. I will 
look in to-morrow if I am well enough. Don't 
bother to come and see me, as I can't talk. — M. A." 

Calpurnia. He's dining with Lucullus, of 
course. If you had only let me engage that cook 
from Gaul, nobody would ever throw us over. 



XIII CALPURNIA'S DINNER-PARTY 133 

C^SAR. Who is yours from ? 

Calpurnia. Lucilius. {She reads) "Most 

ILLUSTRIOUS AND EXQUISITE CaLPURNIA 1 have 

got into the most frightful muddle. Last Monday, 
LucuUus asked me to dinner to-night, and I accepted. 
Then the next day I wrote to him and said I could 
not dine with him after all, as I had to go into Court 
the day after, and I should have to work all night. 
The day after I wrote this letter my case was put 
off, and then you kindly asked me to dinner, and of 
course I accepted ; and now Lucullus has found out 
that I am dining with you, and thinks I threw him 
over for you. He says he's a man short, and that as I 
was engaged to him first, I simply must come to his 
dinner. So I am writing to know whether you could 
possibly let me oiF? And as I have already been 
obliged to throw Lucullus over twice lately, I am sure 
you will understand that I cannot very well come to 
you to-night. I am too sorry for words. — Lucilius." 

CiESAR. I suppose the answer is " Very well " 
in both cases. 

Calpurnia. Yes. [Exit Slave.) Of course 
they will all throw us over now. 

CiESAR. Well, in that case, the matter would 
be solved, and we could dine with Lucullus. 

Calpurnia. But they won't all throw us over. 
Portia's certain to come. 



134 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xiii 

Enter the Slave with two letters. He gives 
them to Calpurnia 

The Slave. No answer. 

Calpurnia {eagerly). This is from Clodia. I 
wonder what lie she will tell. [Reads) " Darling 
Calpurnia — I am too^ too miserable. Everything 
has gone stupidly wrong. When you asked me to 
dinner and said Friday, I thought Friday was the 
loth, and now I see it is the nth, and I have been 
engaged for ages to that tiresome old Lucullus. 
Of course I would throw him over at once^ but 
Metellus won't hear of it, and he says it will serve 
me right if you never ask us again. So like a hus- 
band ! It is too unlucky, darling, isn't it ? You 
will feel for me, I am sure. — Your loving Clodia." 
Well, Catullus won't come now. 

C^sar. Is the other letter from him ? 

Calpurnia. No. Of course they wouldn't 
send them together. It is from Cicero ; if he can't 
come, our dinner's ruined. [She reads) "Most 

HONOURED and EXCELLENT CaLPURNIA — Owing tO 

a quite unusual press of business I much regret to 
say that I will be compelled to forgo the pleasure 
of enjoying your kind hospitality to-night. The 
misfortune is all the more heavy since I shall not 
only miss the pleasure of enjoying your charming 



XIII CALPURNIA'S DINNER-PARTY 135 

society, but also the opportunity of discussing 
several ^matters of importance with Caesar, which I 
was particularly anxious to do. Believe me, I am 
consumed with regret, but I will not waste your 
time in vain excuses and apologies, which seem only 
to increase my vexation without diminishing the in- 
convenience I fear I may be causing you. Hail and 
farewell— M. T. Cicero." 



Enter the Slave with a letter for Cjesar 

The Slave. No answer. [He goes out.) 
CiESAR [opening the letter). It is from Catullus^ 
[Reading) "A terrible catastrophe has happened. 
Going home last night from the Esquiline I got 
my feet wet, and this has affected my style 3 my 
hexameters are beginning to limp and my elegiacs 
are gouty. The doctor says the only thing which 
can cure me is a quiet night's rest and some oysters 
from Britain. But it is unlikely that I shall find 
any in Rome. In view of these distressing circum- 
stances I fear I must put off coming to-night to 
your dinner-party. Quite seriously, I am unwell. 
With a thousand compliments to Calpurnia. — 
Wretched Catullus." " P.S, — I was half engaged 
to Lucullus to-night, so if you see him later, tell him 
I was going to dine with you." 



136 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xiii 

Calpurnia. How silly he is ! I shall never ask 
him again. 

C^SAR. Who is there left ? 

Calpurnia. Now, there are only Brutus and 
Portia, Cassius and Cynthia. 

Enter the Slave with a letter for Calpurnia. 
8he takes it 

The Slave. No answer. {He goes out.) 

Calpurnia. It is from Cynthia. I thought 
she would throw us over too. {Reads) " Dearest 
Calpurnia — Lucullus says you and Caesar and 
Catullus and Clodia are all dining with him. Is 
that right ? Am I dining with him or with you ? 
Please arrange it with him. I will do exactly what 
you like.-— Your loving Cynthia." Now we have 
only got the bores left, Cassius, Brutus and Portia. 
I don't suppose we can very well put them oiF. 

Cjesar. I think we might in this case. You 
see, it is perfectly true that our guests have all 
thrown us over, and it is much too late now to get 
any one else. 

Calpurnia. Very well. You must write to 
Cassius and I will write to Portia. 

C-ff:sAR. And then we can dine with Lucullus. 

Calpurnia. Just as you think best ; but if 



XIII CALPURNIA'S DINNER-PARTY 137 

Brutus and Portia find it out they will never 
forgive us. 

C^SAR. What nonsense ! Besides, perhaps 
Lucullus will ask them. 

Calpurnia. Never. [Reading out as she writes) 
Dearest Portia — It is too unlucky, we are obliged 
to put ofF our dinner-party after all, because every- 
body has thrown us over ; we are dreadfully disap- 
pointed, as we had so looked forward to seeing you. 
We shall have our little dinner on the 19th instead 
— Friday week. We do so hope you and Brutus 
are free. — Yours, Calpurnia. 

CiESAR. That's all right. I will write to 
Lucullus and say we will come, if he has still got 
room for us. 

Calpurnia. Just as you like ; but remember 
that Brutus is touchy and that Portia never 
forgives. 

Curtain. 



XIV 

LUCULLUS*S DINNER-PARTY 

Scene. — A room in Lucullus's house. Discovered z 
LucuLLUS (an old man) and his Cook. 

LucuLLUS. Of course, I don't say that it wasn't 
a good dish j but it was not Neapolitan peacock. 

The Cook. They were straight from Naples ; 
the same as we've always had, sir. 

LucuLLUS {irritated). I'm not talking about the 
bird, but about the dish. You know as well as I 
do that Neapolitan peacock without anemone seed 
is not Neapolitan peacock. And then the night- 
ingales' tongues were over-roasted. They ought to 
be roasted for twenty-three minutes and not one 
second longer. 

The Cook. They were only twenty-four 
minutes on the roast. 

LucuLLUS. There, you see, it was that extra 
minute that spoilt them. You might just as well 
138 



XIV LUCULLUS'S DINNER-PARTY 139 

not roast them at all as roast them for twenty-four 
minutes. And then there were too many butter- 
flies' wings round the sturgeon. 

The Cook. The chief slave 

LucuLLUS. I've told you over and over again, 
till I'm tired of saying it, that the chief slave has 
nothing to do with the arrangement of the dishes. 
That is your aiFair. The chief slave can arrange 
the table, but he must not touch the dishes. The 
look of a dish is just as important as the taste of it. 
And then there was a pinch too much salt in the 
wild boar sauce. 

The Cook. The first sauceman has just lost 
his wife. 

LucuLLUS. That's not my affair. Please make 
it clear that this must not happen again. The fact 
is, iEmilius, you're falling off — last night's dinner 
wasn't fit to eat j it was filthy ; the kind of food 
one gets at Caesar's — sent for from round the 
corner. 

The Cook. If I may be so bold as to say so, 
we were saying in the kitchen that these rehearsals 
of dinners the night before the real dinner make 
us nervous — 

LucuLLUs. All I can say is, if you can't cook 
a good dinner twice running you'd better get 
another place. The dinner wasn't fit to eat, and 



140 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xiv 

if it's anything like that to-night I advise you to 
give up trying to cook and to take to w^restling. 
That's all j you can go. 

[ The Cook blushes scarlet and goes out. 

Enter a Slave 
The Slave. Can you see Portia, the vf\h of 
Brutus ? 

LucuLLUS. Yes -, show her in. 

Enter Portia 

Portia. It's such a beautiful morning that I 
thought a nice brisk v^^alk would do me good, and 
as I was passing your door I couldn't help just look- 
ing in. 

LucuLLUS. I'm delighted. 

Portia [sitting down). I wanted to ask you 
whether you would mind giving your patronage 
to the Old Slaves' Pensions Fund ? Cicero has 
helped us a great deal, and Caesar has promised. 
By the way, is Caesar dining with you to-night ? 

LucuLLUS. Yes, I believe he is. 

Portia. Well, he particularly wants to see 
Brutus, and he said something about meeting us 
here to-night, and as I had heard nothing from you 
I thought I would just ask. The slaves are so 
stupid about letters — not that I want very much to 
dine out. You see I'm very busy just at this 



XIV LUCULLUS'S DINNER-PARTY 141 

momentj and there's a Committee Meeting to-night 
for the O.S.P.F. {She sighs.) But one can't 
always think of oneself, and Brutus has been so 
depressed lately. He sleeps badly, and we've tried 
everything. The new Greek doctor has done him 
no good, and we've tried fomented eucalyptus and 
poppy soup, and the cold-water cure ; but it all 
seems to make him worse, and the doctors say that 
what he wants is society^ and we so seldom see 
any one. 

LucuLLUS. I shall be quite delighted if you 
both could come to-night. [He calls out) Lucius. 
{Enter Slave.) Tell ^miHus at once we shall be 
two extra to dinner to-night j and tell him to get 
some more hoopoe's eggs. 

Portia. Of course, I didn't mean to propose 
myself {she laughs nervously) — you mustn't think 
that ; and have you really got room for us ? 

LucuLLUS. Oh, there's plenty of room. {Pen- 
sively) Do you like hoopoe's eggs ? 

Portia {simpering). Well, they're dreadfully 
indigestible, but I must say I never can resist a 
good hoopoe's Qgg, {Getting up) Then I can 
count on your patronage ? 

LucuLLUS. Certainly ; is there a subscription ? 

Portia. Not for the patrons. You see 

LucuLLUs. Yes, I see. 



142 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xiv 

Portia. Good-bye. Thank you so much. 
[Exit Portia. Lucullus sees her to the door 
and returns. 
Lucullus [pensively), Brutus never drinks wine. 

Enter Slave 

Slave. The Queen of Egypt is here. -/Emilius 
says it's too late to cook dinner for tw^elve now 
without spoiling it ; he says we're one too many as 
it is, and that he can't get any more hoopoe's eggs, 
and that there won't be enough to go round. 

Lucullus. Show the Queen in. 

[Exit Slave. 

Enter Cleopatra 

Cleopatra. Don't get up, Lucullus ; I'm not 
going to keep you a minute. I want to know if 
you could possibly dine with me to-night. I've got 
some dancing ; a little Persian girl — so clever — she 
does a parakeet dance with live birds. 

Lucullus. There's nothing I should like so 
much, dear Egypt ; but I've got a dinner of my 
own. Do you want a man ? 

Cleopatra. I want two men, dreadfully. 

Lucullus. I'll tell you who are coming — 
Mark Antony. 

Cleopatra. I don't know him. 



XIV LUCULLUS'S DINNER-PARTY 143 

LucuLLUs. Cicero. 

Cleopatra. I'm afraid he wouldn't do. 

LucuLLUS. Brutus and his wife. 

Cleopatra {laughing). They don't know me. 

LucuLLUs. Catullus. Oh, I forgot Caesar and 
his wife. 

Cleopatra. Of course Caesar would do beau- 
tifully, but I suppose you couldn't spare him. 

LucuLLUS. To tell you the truth, I've got too 
many guests and not enough hoopoe's eggs to go 
round, but 

Cleopatra. Well, I happened to meet Caesar 
quite by chance this morning, and he said that poor 
Calpurnia had got one of her headaches and was 
dying not to dine out, but you know how dear and 
unselfish she is. So if you should put them off, 
I think it would be rather a reHef to her^ and 
then Caesar could just run in for a moment to 
my dinner. 

LucuLLUs. Certainly ; I'll say I've mistaken 
the date. 

Cleopatra. That is charming of you ; thank 
you so much. And you must come and dine quite 
quietly with me one night, and you might bring 
Mark Antony ; I want to know him so much. 

LucuLLUS. He's not interesting ; he bolts his 
food. 



144 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xiv 

Cleopatra. How funny ! Just like Caesar. 
Good-bye ; I must fly. [Exit Cleopatra. 

Enter Slave 

Slave. Clodia, the wife of Metellus Celer, 
wishes to see you. 

LucuLLUS. Show her in, and tell i^milius we 
shan't be two extra. 

Enter Clodia 

Clodia. It's too bad of me, Lucullus, to dis- 
turb you so early in the morning. 

Lucullus. On the contrary 

Clodia. What a charming room. {Pointing to 
a statue of Hermes) That's a Praxiteles, isn't it ? 

Lucullus. No ; it's only a copy I had made 
by a little man at Puteoli. 

Clodia. I think it's wonderful. 

Lucullus. It is clever. 

Clodia. You got my note ? 

Lucullus. Yes ; I'm delighted you can come. 

Clodia. Well, that's just what I wanted to 
explain. Metellus says you've asked Catullus, and 
last night we were all dining with Pollio, and 
Catullus was there. Of course, I don't know him 
very well, but I've always been civil to him because 
of Metellus, who happens to like him. Well, last 
night he was so rude to my father-in-law that I 



XIV LUCULLUS'S DINNER-PARTY 145 

don't feel as if I could meet him again to-night. I 
mean I don't think it would be right. Couldn't 
you put him off and say he made you thirteen ? — 
otherwise I don't think I can come, and I wouldn't 
miss your dinner for worlds. 

LucuLLUS {enchanted). Quite delighted, I assure 
you, to render you the smallest service. I will 
write at once. {He scribbles two notes.) Lucius ! 
{Enter a Slave.) Take this note to Caius Va- 
lerius Catullus at once, and this one to the Queen 
of Egypt, and tell ^milius we shall only be nine. 
{To Clodia) I assure you it won't matter to him, 
as Cleopatra is giving a dinner to-night and is look- 
ing out for a man. I have written to tell her. 

Clodia. Cleopatra ! Oh ! 

LucuLLUS. Yes ; don't you like her ? 

Clodia. Metellus hates Greeks ; and I only 
just know her, but I do admire her. Metellus 
thinks she's so second-rate. I don't see it. 

Lucullus. She's cultivated. 

Clodia. Yes ; Greeks always are. 

Enter a Slave with a letter^ which he gives to 
Lucullus 

The Slave. Waiting for an answer. 
Lucullus. May I read this ? 
Clodia. Please. 



146 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xiv 

[LucuLLUS Opens the letter and looks at the signature, 

LucuLLUS. It's from one of my guests — 
Cynthia. I can't read it ; I'm so short-sighted 
and I left my emerald upstairs. 

Clodia. Shall I read it for you ? 

LucuLLUS. That would be very kind. 

Clodia [reads). " Dear Lucullus — I find I can 
come to dinner after all. I have just found a letter 
which has been going all over Rome for me for the 
last week, from the King of Nubia, who had asked 
me to-night (and of course it was a command), 
saying that his dinner is put off. So I shall be 
delighted to come to-night if I may. — Cynthia." 
That will just make you a woman over, won't it j 
but it will be all right if I don't come. 

Lucullus. On the contrary 

Clodia. Of course it will. You see I may 
just as well come another night, and Metellus will 
come without me — husbands are always so much 
nicer without their wives. As a matter of fact, 
Metellus didn't much want me to come, because 
my throat's been rather bad lately, and he thinks I 
oughtn't to go out at night ; so it all fits in. Good- 
bye, Lucullus. 

Lucullus. Good-bye. (jEa-zV Clodia.) She'll 
go to Cleopatra's — after all, food is wasted on 
women. Lucius ! 



XIV LUCULLUS'S DINNER-PARTY 147 

Enter the Slave 

The Slave. If you please, sir, iEmilius has 
killed himself! 

LucuLLUs. Then who's going to cook the 
dinner ? 

The Slave. The head sauceman says he can 
manage the nightingales' tongues and the fish, but 
he's no experience of peacock. 

Lucullus. Peacock ! I should think not. 
He's not to touch the peacock. [He walks up and 
down in great agitation^ thinking^ Tell the head 
sauceman — who is it — Balbus ? 

The Slave. Yes, sir. 

Lucullus. Tell Balbus I will have dinner in 
my room an hour and a half before the other dinner. 
He can give soup, fish, pheasant, nightingales' 
tongues, the cold boar pie which was left from 
yesterday, and some hoopoe's eggs — and as for the 
dinner, you can send out for it. Send now to 
Varro's shop and order dinner for nine — eight 
courses — anything you Hke. Go at once. They 
may not be able to do it in time. 

The Slave. If you please, sir, one of the slaves 
was over at Varro's this morning about the extra 
slaves to wait, and they said they had a dinner 



148 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xiv 

ordered and countermanded by Calpurnia on their 
hands. 

LucuLLUs. That will do. But tell Balbus if 
my nightingales are not satisfactory he shall be 
impaled. 

Curtain. 



XV 

THE STOICS DAUGHTER 

Scene. — A room in the house of Burrus, Prefect of 
the Prcetorian Guards of Nero. Burrus is 
discovered in an attitude of despondency. 

Enter a Slave 

Burrus. Well ? 

Slave. Caius Petronius would like to speak 
to you. 

Burrus. I will see him. 

Enter C. Petronius — Petronius Arbiter, 
middle-aged^ but very elegant 

Petronius. Good morning. I've come about 
that dinner. The Emperor quite approves of the 
list of guests . . . 

Burrus. I don't suppose you wish me to come 
now. 

Petronius. Why not ? 
149 



150 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xv 

BuRRUS. Well, after Lucius's — er — unfortunate 
escapade 

Petronius. My dear fellow, I assure you that's 
not of the slightest consequence. If we had to be 
responsible for our sons' misdeeds life would be- 
come impossible. As it is, the Emperor, while 
sympathising with your feelings 

BuRRUS. Please don't talk about it. You can 
understand how inexpressibly painful it is to me. 

Petronius. It might have been worse. He 
might have gone on the stage. 

BuRRUS. The gods spared us that. That 
would have killed ^Emilia. 

Petronius. I suppose she feels it dreadfully. 

BuRRUS. It's not so much the thing she minds, 
but the family name being dragged into publicity 
— people making bets 

Petronius. Yes, yes — but there's nothing to 
be done. After all, when all's said and done it is 
much less degrading to be a gladiator than an actor 
— or a charioteer. Piso's nephew is a charioteer, 
and Tigellinus's brother appeared on the stage for 
some charity. 

BuRRUS. I don't know what the world is 
coming to. 

Petronius. I suppose he'll drop it immediately. 
Then I should send him abroad for a little, and the 



XV THE STOICS DAUGHTER 151 

world will forget all about it. These things are 
forgotten so quickly. After all, boys will be boys. 
Believe me, young men must sow their wild oats, 
and the sooner they get it over the better. Well, 
please give my respects to Emilia, and I can count 
on you for certain for the fifteenth ? 
BuRRUS. I shall come without fail. 

[Exit Petronius. 

Enter JEmilia — Burrus's wife 

iEMiLiA. Well ? What did he say ? 

BuRRUS. Nothing, practically. The Emperor 
doesn't seem to have said anything. 

i^MiLiA. But do you mean to say you haven't 
arranged anything ? 

BuRRUS. What about ? The dinner-party ? 

i^MiLiA. Dinner-party, indeed ! I mean about 
Lucius not appearing at the Games again. 

BuRRUS. No, I haven't. What is there to 
arrange ? 

^Emilia. You really are too helpless. You 
must get him banished, of course — ^just for a short 
time. 

BuRRUS. I didn't like to — but I'll write to 
Seneca. 

-Emilia. Seneca's no use. Write to Petronius. 
He'll arrange it without any fuss. 



152 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xv 

BuRRUS. I hardly like 



^Emilia. If Lucius appears once more in the 
circus as a gladiator I shall open my veins in my 
bath. 

BuRRUS. Oh, well, of course, if you insist 

^Emilia. Yes, I do insist. 

Enter a Slave 

Slave. Lucius, Annaeus Seneca, and Annaeus 
Serenus wish to see you. 
BuRRUS. Show them in. 

Enter Lucius, A. Seneca, and A. Serenus 

\_Exit Slave. 

Seneca. I've only just heard the news, or else I 
would have come sooner. 

Serenus. And I had no idea until Seneca told 
me. 

Burrus. I suppose it's all over Rome by now. 

Seneca. You mustn't take these things to 
heart. 

Emilia. It's all very well for you to talk, 
Seneca ; you haven't got a son. 

Seneca. I would esteem it a privilege to be 
visited by troubles of this nature. It is only the 
noblest souls that the gods plague with such 
disasters in order that, tempered by affliction, the 



XV THE STOIC'S DAUGHTER 153 

true steel, emerging triumphant from the trial, 
may serve as an example to mankind. 

Serenus. Not being a stoic, Burrus, I take a 
different vievv^ of the incident. I consider that 
man is born to enjoy himself, and that the oppor- 
tunities of enjoyment are rare and far between. 
Life is monotonous. If your son finds a relaxation 
from the tediousness of existence in fighting as a 
gladiator, by all means let him continue to do so. 
It is a profession which calls forth many of the 
noblest qualities of man. 

-Emilia. But think of the family, Serenus. 
Think of us, of my sisters, my sisters-in-law, my 
cousins ; think of my husband and the harm that 
it may do him professionally. 

Seneca. Vain thoughts, I assure you, iEmiha. 
A man's merit depends on the aspirations of his 
soul and not on the idle gossip of his relations. 

Serenus. All one's relations are liars. It is 
much better that they should say your son is a 
gladiator who fights in public — which is true — 
than that they should say he is a drunkard who 
drinks in secret, which would be untrue. They 
would no doubt say that, had they no other food 
for gossip. 

tEmilia. But Lucius never drinks. He had 
never Jgiven us a day's anxiety until this. 



154 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xv 

BuRRUS. He got all the prizes at school. 

-/Emilia. He was working so hard to become 
an officer. 

Serenus. Ah ! Over-education, I see. I assure 
you the whole matter does not signify. 

-Emilia. It is breaking his father's heart. 

BuRRUS. I shall never hold up my head in public. 

Seneca. Come, Burrus, think of Brutus, and 
what he had to endure from his son. 

Serenus. Yes, and think of the many Roman 
sons who have killed their fathers. 

Seneca. In every evil, in every misfortune there 
is always a seed of consolation. You must, of 
course, deal kindly with him, but firmly, and I am 
convinced he will listen to reason. 

Emilia. He wouldn't listen to us at all. We 
all tried our best to dissuade him — except his 
cousin Lesbia. Heartless woman ! It was entirely 
her fault. 

Burrus. He shall never cross this threshold 
again as long as I live. 

Seneca. Set a noble example of forgiveness, 
Burrus, and the world will be grateful to you. 

Burrus. I will never set eyes upon him again. 
He has disgraced himself and his family for ever. 
There are certain stains of dishonour which can 
never be effaced. 



XV THE STOICS DAUGHTER 155 

Enter a Slave 

Slave. Paulina, the wife of Seneca, is here. 
She wishes to speak to you. 

Seneca. My wife ! What can she want ? 
BuRRUS. Show her in. 

\^Exit Slave. 

Enter Paulina 

Paulina. Forgive me, Burrus, for forcing my 
way in — they said you were not at home to any 
visitors — but it is a matter of life and death — and 
I must speak to Seneca. {To Seneca) I have been 
hunting for you the whole morning, and it's by the 
merest chance I found out you had come here. 

Seneca. What is it ? 

Paulina. A terrible catastrophe has befallen 
us. 

Seneca. My Greek vases ? 

Paulina. No, it's nothing to do with your 
horrible collections. 

Seneca. Then don't you think we had better 
go home and discuss the matter in private ? 

Paulina. No, I want Burrus's help. 

Seneca. What can have happened ? 

Paulina. It's Julia. 

Seneca. I suppose she's run away with some one. 



156 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xv 

Paulina. Oh no j it's far worse than that. 

Seneca. You mean 

Paulina. I don't mean anything. 1 mean 
she has disgraced us all. 

Serenus. These little affairs blow over so 
quickly. 

Paulina. But you don't understand — you will 
never believe it. The girl has become a Christian. 

Seneca. A Christian ! 

BuRRUS. No ! 

-/Emilia. My poor Paulina ! 

Serenus. Curious ! 

BuRRUS. She must have been got hold of by 
the Jews. 

^Emilia. They are terribly cunning j and 
people say they're everywhere, and yet one doesn't 
see them. 

Serenus. But surely there is nothing irretriev- 
able about this. As long as nobody knows about 
it, what does it signify ? 

Seneca. You don't understand. It's a matter 
of principle ; I could not possibly harbour a 
daughter under my roof whom I knew to be a 
traitor to the State. 

Serenus. It is annoying. 

Paulina. But you don't know the worst : she 
has gone to prison. 



XV THE STOICS DAUGHTER 157 

Seneca {very angry). Well, I hope you will let 
her know that she shall never come back to our 
home as long as she lives. Her conduct is not only 
immoral, but it is immodest. It is inspired solely 
and simply by a passion for self-advertisement. It 
is this modern craze for publicity which is the 
ruin of our children ; she is bitten by this same 
passion for notoriety which — you will excuse me 
saying so, Burrus — led your son to be a gladiator. 
I call it vulgar, tawdry, Byzantine, hysterical, and 
essentially un-Roman. 

Serenus. But surely, by dear Seneca, nobody 
can think it amusing to go to prison ? Think of 
the risk. 

Seneca. I beg your pardon. People of her 
class risk nothing. They have got a morbid craze 
for new sensations. 

Serenus. Rather disagreeable sensations, aren't 
they ? To be eaten by a tiger, for instance ? 

Seneca. There's no question of that. It's only 
the worst criminals who are treated like that. Am 
I not right, Burrus r 

Burrus. Perfectly. A purely religious offender 
is immediately released on making the mere outward 
sign of allegiance to the State. An oath is not even 
required. 

Paulina. Well, that's just what I've come 



158 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xv 

about. The child is in prison, and it appears — it 
is very foolish and obstinate of her, but Julia always 
was an obstinate child — that she refuses to fulfil 
the necessary formality, sacrifice, or whatever it is. 
So I thought I would come to you, Burrus, and ask 
you just to say a word to the prison authorities, 
and then she could be let out — quite quietly, of 
course. Nobody need know about it. 

Burrus. My dear lady, you know how gladly 
I would do anything in the world to be of use to 
you. But in this case — and I am sure you will 
understand — I cannot see my way ; indeed it is 
quite impossible for me to take any action. You see, 
Petronius's cousin was released three weeks ago, and 
smuggled out of the country, and the demagogues 
got hold of it and complained to the Emperor, who 
— courting popularity as usual — said it was not to 
occur again. 'So'you^see in what an awkward position 
we are placed. We can't make these distinctions 
simply between people of position and others 

Paulina. But it's always done. 

Burrus. That's just why it can't be done this 
time. The Emperor is extremely annoyed at people 
of good family having anything to do with those 
horrible Christians, and he's determined to stamp 
this mania out. But all she has got to do is to 
sacrifice 



XV THE STOIC'S DAUGHTER 159 

Paulina. But you don't realise how obstinate 
the girl is. 

Enter Lesbia, a lovely gay woman^ about 25 

Lesbia. Good morning, good morning. I've 
got some places for the Games, and Lucius comes 
on at three. You must see him fight. He's too 
wonderful. And it's horrible of you not to go 
and see him, and then they're going to throw all 
the Christians to the lions directly afterwards, so 
you must come. 

Curtain. 



XVI 
AFTER EURIPIDES' "ELECTRA" 

Scene. — A room in the house ^Cinyras, at Athens, 

[Rec/ining on couches round the tables are 
Socrates, Alcander [a man about Athens)^ 
Demetrius [a critic)^ Xenocles {a play- 
wright)^ Antagoras [an important official)^ 
Naucydes {a soldier)^ Heliodore (wife of 
CiNYRAs), and her friends^ Lycoris, 
Timareta, Nicylla, and Hegeso. 

Heliodore. Euripides has promised to come ; 
but we won't wait for him. I don't know what 
you feel, but I'm very hungry. 

Naucydes. So am I. Makes one hungry, 
don't you know — that kind of thing. Splendid 
show. 

Lycoris. What I say is, it's too long. It 
lasted nearly all day. If he had made it about half 
as long, it would be just as beautiful, and much 
1 60 



XVI AFTER EURIPIDES' "ELECTRA" i6i 

more enjoyable for us. Of course, I don't pretend 
to be a judge, but I do say it's too long. 

CiNYRAS. Much the best thing is to do as I do 
and not go to the play at all. 

Lycoris. No, I like a good play. But I don't 
care for Diophantus' acting. It's just the same 
with Tityus. What I say is, Diophantus is always 
Diophantus and Tityus is always Tityus. 

Demetrius. But surely the business of the 
actor is never to let his personality change ? 

NiCYLLA. What did you think of the play, 
Demetrius ? 

Demetrius. I am afraid I must not tell you 
that until my opinions are published. It wouldn't 
be fair on the author. 

NiCYLLA. And what did you think, Socrates ? 

Socrates. I admired it immensely. 

Hegeso. I thought it wonderful. I loved the 
story. I loved Clytaemnestra's clothes, that won- 
derful, dirty, wine- stained dress, and Electra's 
pale, shivering, stone-cold mask ; and Orestes was 
such a darling. So mad, and distraught, and 
rebellious. 

Heliodore. I thought it was marvellous. 

NiCYLLA. I think it's so much better than 
Sophocles' Electra. 

Alcander. It's very clever, of course ; brilliantly 

M 



i62 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvi 

clever ; but it's not a play. It's really only a dis- 
cussion. 

Hegeso. But I was thrilled by the story 
and so frightened. 

TiMARETA. You know, it's not the story. It's 
the acting. Apollodorus told me it's the acting. 
It's wonderful. It's felt. I felt it. 

Lycoris. I must say, I don't like that sort of 
play. I think it leaves a nasty taste in one's mouth 
and one doesn't quite know why. I know it's 
very clever. 

NiCYLLA. Oh, Lycoris, how old-fashioned of 
you ! Now don't you think Electra was right, 
Socrates, to kill her mother ? 

Socrates. We'll ask Euripides that when he 

comes. My business is to ask questions 

Naucydes {aside to Heliodore). And a great 
nuisance he is, too, with his questions. 
Socrates. And not to answer them. 
Naucydes {aside to Heliodore). I don't be- 
lieve he knows what the answers are. 

NiCYLLA. But don't you think, Demetrius, 
that a girl is justified in taking the law into her 
hands in such very exceptional circumstances j or 
do you think a girl's first duty is to her mother ? 

Antagoras. I think she deserved a good 
whipping, if you ask me. However, it's not the 



XVI AFTER EURIPIDES' "ELECTRA" 163 

story I object to. I mean, we all know the story, 
and we're quite ready to see a new play on the 
subject, as long as it's treated reverently and 
decently ; but one never knows with Euripides 
when he's serious, or whether he's laughing in 
his sleeve the whole time or not. Now I like 
iEschylus. 

Xenocles. Poor Euripides ! He's shot his 
bolt. 

NiCYLLA. Do you think he's played out ? 

Lycoris. What I say is this, that Clytaemnestra 
thoroughly deserved to die, but Electra wasn't the 
person to kill her, and that as she did kill her 
mother she ought to have been punished. 

TiMARETA. It was Fate, that's what it was. 
Apollodorus told me it was all Fate. 

Hegeso. Yes, and she was so sad, so miserable ; 
she couldn't bear doing it. She loved her mother, 
although her mother had been so unkind, and 
turned her out of that beautiful house into a cold 
cruel hut, and only a herdsman to talk to. Don't 
you agree, Naucydes, with me, that Electra was 
cruelly treated ? She couldn't help it, could she ? 

Naucydes. Rather an awkward case, don't 
you know. Sort of fix when everything you do's 
wrong. [He laughs loudly.) 

Hegeso. And wasn't the music too heavenly ? 



i64 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvi 

Alcander. It's like the play — clever ; but it 
isn't music, any more than the play's a play. 

Antagoras. I couldn't make head or tail of it 
— but then I'm not musical. 

Hegeso. Didn't you love those divine little 
screams, like a saw cutting ice, and the noise the 
cymbals made, like sHppery sandals rushing down a 
marble mountain ? 

NiCYLLA. What did you think of the music, 
Demetrius ? 

Demetrius. There are no ideas in it, and it's 
very thin ; there's no colour in it either, but a 
certain amount of clever arabesque work. 

NiCYLLA. Don't you think music acts on one's 
sub-conscious superself without one's noticing it ? 
When I hear certain kinds of music I go quite 
mad, and sometimes when I hear music I feel as if 
I could understand everything. I am sure you 
agree with me, Socrates. And now, do tell me : 
Does music have an Apolline or a Dionysic effect on 
you ? Sometimes it has a Dionysic effect on me 
and sometimes an Apolline. 

Socrates. What is music, Nicylla ? If you 
can answer me that, I will tell you the nature of 
its effect on me. 

NiCYLLA. Music is the language of the soul. 
It is to man what the perfume is to the flower. 



XVI AFTER EURIPIDES' "ELECTRA" 165 

Antagoras. Music's a nuisance. 

Demetrius. Not necessarily ; but it is often 
an interruption. 

Alcander. And sometimes an accompaniment. 

Lycoris. Yes, as in the play to-day. What 
I say is, all this new music isn't music, but noise. 

Antagoras. I agree with you ; it oughtn't to 
be allowed. 

Demetrius. But isn't all music noise ? 

Hegeso. Yes : delicious, heavenly noises, all 
caught like tame mice and put in chains and made 
to be obedient. 

Heliodore. Don't let's discuss the music till 
we've finished talking about the play. Now, 
Xenocles thinks that Euripides is played out. 

Xenocles. Euripides has talent, but he is 
essentially mediocre ; his verses are vulgar and 
facile. However, I've no doubt the sausage-sellers 
enjoy his plays. It is the kind of thing which 
would appeal to them. And they say the Barbarians 
find them extraordinarily profound. 

NiCYLLA. Now, that's one of your paradoxes, 
Xenocles. How brilliant he is, isn't he ? 

TiMARETA. Apollodorus says his characters are 
too natural. They are just what one sees every 
day. 

Antagoras. Good gracious, I hope not. 



1 66 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvi 

NiCYLLA. Now, Socrates, I know you admire 
Euripides, and I always have admired him. I 
always said from the first that he was far the 
greatest playwright we'd ever had. I want to 
know what Xenocles admires. 

Xenocles. Well, there's Agathon, but no one 
else. 

NicYLLA. And I'm sure you don't admire 
Sophocles ? 

Xenocles. The gods forbid. 

Demetrius. His work is quite dead. I believe 
his plays are still admired in Thrace. 

Naucydes. I saw one the other day, and I'm 
afraid I liked it, 

NiCYLLA. Oh, Naucydes, how can you say 
such a thing ? They're so empty. There's no 
soul in them. No world-sympathy. No atmo- 
spheric intuition. Nothing cosmic. And then 
they say his verses are all wrong. Aren't they, 
Xenocles ? 

Xenocles. Sophocles undoubtedly wrote some 
good lines, but his philosophy is childish. It is 
essentially Mid-Athenian. 

Hegeso. Oh, I adore Mid-Athenian things. 
I've had a room furnished in the Mid-Athenian 
style with archaic busts j you can't think how 
quaint and charming it looks. 



XVI AFTER EURIPIDES* "ELECTRA" 167 

Heliodore. Won't you have a little more 
partridge, Hegeso ? 

Hegeso. No, thank you, dear. I never touch 
food at this time in the evening. I can only eat a 
little parsley and mint in the morning. 

Heliodore. Fm sure you must be hungry after 
all v^eVe gone through. I confess I cried like a 
child. 

TiMARETA. That's what it is — Euripides is so 
pathetic. He's not great and he's not mystic, but 
he's pathetic. He touches one just here. {She 
points to her throat.) Apollodorus told me he's 
pathetic. He's got bathos. 

Hegeso. I felt so sorry for Clytaemnestra. 
I w^as miserable vi^hen she screamed. I jumped 
up in my seat and cried : " I can't bear it, I 
can't bear it ; they're killing Clytaemnestra." And 
Callias, who was sitting next to me, was so 
cross. [She helps herself to a quail.) It has been a 
wonderful day. 

Heliodore. Wonderful ! I've never been 
through anything like it before. 

NicYLLA. I felt as if my soul had escaped and 
was just floating in mid-ether between one world 
and another j between the two gates, don't you 
know. 

TiMARETA. I was moved, that's what it was — 



i68 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvi 

moved. I felt like — as if I were at a funeral — a 
State funeral, with music and torches. 

Alcander. Yes, it was certainly a fine per- 
formance. 

Naucydes. By Zeus, yes ! 

Demetrius. I don't mind saying that I was 
interested. 

Hegeso. I shall never get over it, never. I 
feel as if it had all happened to me. {She helps her- 
self to another quail.) 

Enter a Slave 

The Slave. Euripides has sent to say he is 
very sorry he can't come to supper. He is too 
tired. 

Socrates. I am afraid I must leave you. I 
have some pupils waiting for me at home. 

Heliodore. Oh, don't go, Socrates. I haven't 
spoken to you at all, and I have got so many 
things to say to you. 

Socrates. I'm afraid I must go. Farewell, 
and a thousand thanks for your kind hospitality. 

Demetrius. And I'm afraid I must go. I've 
got to write about the play. 

[Exeunt Socrates and Demetrius. 

Heliodore. I must say I do think it's rather 
thoughtless of Euripides to throw me over at the 



XVI AFTER EURIPIDES' "ELECTRA" 169 

last minute. I do think he might have let me 
know. You see, Socrates only came because of 
Euripides. And you see what happens the moment 
he hears he's not coming — he goes. 

Xenocles. He always does that. He's spoilt. 
I told you he was overrated. 

Heliodore. I don't mind personally a bit. I 
don't happen to care for him ; but I have asked 
thirty people to come in afterwards to meet him, 
and I do think it's selfish. 

Lycoris. I could tell from his play he was 
selfish. 

Timareta. He's no heart, that's what it is. 
He's heartless. Just like Electra — heartless. 

Heliodore. But I do think Socrates might 
have stayed. 

Xenocles. Don't you understand why he's 
gone ? He didn't want to tell Euripides how bad 
he thought the play was ! 

NiCYLLA. Do you mean he really thinks it 
bad? 

Xenocles. I'm convinced of it. 

Antagoras. It's much worse than bad ; it's 
undermining. 

Demetrius. I don't mind telling you now 
what I think — it's a poor affair. 

Alcander. Yes, I'm afraid it's a failure. 



I70 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvi 

Hegeso. Oh no, don't say that, because 
I did so love it. 

Heliodore. I never liked Euripides. 

NiCYLLA. I told you he was finished. I'm 
never w^rong. I knew it was all a mistake. 

Xenocles. He means well. 

Antagoras. No, he doesn't ; that's just it. 

Lycoris. What I say is, that those kinds of 
plays do harm. 

Antagoras. The man's an atheist. 

Lycoris. He's a scoffer. 

Antagoras. But Socrates is far worse than he is. 

NiCYLLA. Oh, he's such a bore. 

Hegeso. I love his little snub nose. 

Heliodore. I shall never ask them again. 

Alcander. Tiresome people. 

Lycoris. What I say is, people like Socrates 
and Euripides ought to be put in prison. 

NiCYLLA. Especially Socrates. 

Antagoras. So he will be, or else my name's 
not Antagoras. He only deserves one thing, and 
that's capital punishment. 

Hegeso. Poor little Socrates ! But I hope 
you'll let Euripides off. 

Antagoras. He doesn't count ; he's only a 
playwright. 

Curtain. 



XVII 

JASON AND MEDEA 

Scene. — A room in the house of Jason, looking on 
to garden^ at Corinth, Discovered : Jason and 
Glauce. 

Jason. I think you really had better go. She 
may be in any minute now. 

Glauce. Very well ; but you promise to tell 
her to-day ? 

Jason. I swear. 

Glauce. It's all very well, but you said that 
yesterday. 

Jason. Yes, and I would have told her yester- 
day, only I was interrupted 

Glauce. I know j the only thing I say is, 
you must tell her to-day and do it nicely, because 
I shouldn't like poor little Medea to be hurt. 

Jason. No, of course not. Good-bye. 

Glauce. Good-bye. Then to-morrow at 
eleven, at the Creon Institute. 
171 



172 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvii 

Jason. Very well, at eleven. 

Glauce. And then we might — no. 

Jason. What ? 

Glauce. Nothing. I was only thinking we 
might have some food at the " Golden Fleece," 
downstairs, 

Jason. The whole of Corinth would see us. 

Glauce. There is never a soul downstairs, and 
I don't see now that it much matters. 

Jason. It's a pity to make oneself conspicuous ; 
your father 

Glauce. You know best, but I should have 
thought 

Jason. That's Medea coming through the 
garden. 

Glauce. To-morrow, at eleven. 

Jason. Yes — yes — to-morrow. (Glauce goes 
out L,) 

Enter Medea from the garden 

Medea. I can't get any one for dinner to- 
morrow night. We want somebody amusing. 

Jason {wearily). Would Orpheus do ? 

Medea. We've got too many heroes as it is. 
And then, if Orpheus comes, we shall be obliged to 
ask him to play. 

Jason. What about Castor and Pollux ? 



XVII JASON AND MEDEA 173 

Medea. Heroes again — and I think it's a mis- 
take to ask brothers together. 

Jason. Heracles is staying at Corinth. 

Medea. He would do beautifully. 

Jason. Vm not sure he would do. He doesn't 
get on with Admetus. 

Medea. Why not ? Admetus ought to be 
very grateful. 

Jason. For bringing back his wife from the 
grave ? 

Medea. Yes, of course. 

Jason. Of course. (J ASOii looks pensive.) 

Medea. Then we shall want another woman. 

Jason. How would Ariadne do ? 

Medea. What are you thinking of ? Theseus 
is coming. 

Jason. I thought all that had entirely blown 
over. 

Medea. We want an unmarried woman, if 
possible. 

Jason. I don't know any one. 

Medea. Do you think we could get King 
Creon's daughter by herself? She's so pretty. I 
mean Glauce. 

Jason [blushing scarlet). I don't think — er — no 
— you see — we can't very well. 

Medea. Why not ? 



174 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvii 

Jason. She's a girl. 

Medea. She goes everywhere. She doesn't 
count as a girl. 

Jason. Then we should have to ask King 
Creon. 

Medea. No, Alcestis will bring her. That 
will do beautifully. I'll send a message at once. 

Jason. For the sake of the gods, do nothing of 
the kind. 

Medea. But she'll do beautifully. 

Jason. You don't understand. You see, King 
Creon has — he's — well, I don't quite know how to 
say it. 

Medea. What do you mean ? 

Jason. Well, it's very awkward. The fact is. 
King Creon has approached me politically — about 
something 

Medea. What has that got to do with asking 
Glauce ? 

Jason. No, nothing, of course, except that we 
should have to ask him. 

Medea. I've already told you that it's un- 
necessary. 

Jason {firmly). I shouldn't dream of asking her 
without her father, and we can't ask him. 

Medea. Why not ? 

Jason. Oh, because he never does dine out. 



XVII JASON AND MEDEA 175 

Medea. Pm sure he would come here. 

Jason. It's impossible. You see, to tell you 
the truth — I've been meaning to tell you this for 
some time, only I've never had the opportunity — 
the King is rather severe about you. 

Medea. Severe ! How ? 

Jason. Well, you see, he's old-fashioned, and 
he doesn't consider our marriage as a marriage. 

Medea. We were married in the temple of 
Aphrodite. What more does he want ? 

Jason. He doesn't consider that a girl's marriage 
is valid when it is made without the consent of her 
parents ; and your poor dear father, you know, was 
most unreasonable. 

Medea. Papa being silly has got nothing to do 
with it. When a man and a woman are married in 
a temple, with the proper rites, they are man and 
wife. Nothing can ever alter the fact. 

Jason. Yes, but it's not only that. Creon 
goes much farther than that. He made me certain 
revelations concerning some family business which, 
I must say, surprised me immensely. 
Medea. What family business ? 

Jason. Well, it appears that soon after I started 
for Colchis my father entered into secret negotia- 
tions with King Creon, and signed an offensive and 
defensive alliance with him, the object of which was 



176 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvii 

to safeguard themselves against Pelias. The word- 
alliance remained secret. But at a State banquet 
Creon laid great stress on the friendship between 
himself and the iEolidae, and brought in the words 
"friendly understanding" several times. Now in 
the treaty, which was drawn up and published, to 
mask the alliance, there were several secret clauses, 
one of which concerned the Sardine Fisheries in the 
Isthmus of Corinth, and the other — well — er, my 
marriage. 

Medea. Your marriage. 

Jason. Yes, it is extraordinary, isn't it ? It 
appears that during my absence, and without my 
being consulted in any way whatsoever, I was 
formally married, by proxy, of course, to Creon's 
daughter Glauce — who was at that time a mere 
child. It was further settled that as soon as she 
was grown up, the marriage would be announced 
and the King would publicly adopt me as his heir. 

Medea. No wonder he was annoyed at your 
having married me. 

Jason. Well, you see, he isn't annoyed at that, 
because he says our marriage wasn't vaHd. 

Medea. Not in the eyes of the law, perhaps ; 
but I am sure Aphrodite would not only be pained, 
but extremely angry if we cancelled vows which 
were made in her temple. 



XVII JASON AND MEDEA 177 

Jason. No, that's just it. It appears he con- 
sulted all the oracles and the priestesses, and the 
Pythonesses, and they all say that our marriage is 
not only illegal, but positively criminal, and that my 
lawful wife, both in the eyes of man and of the gods, 
is Glauce. 

Medea. And my children ? 

Jason. Well, about the children, opinion was 
slightly divided ; but they inclined to think that, 
if I adopted them, they would be considered 
legitimate. 

Medea. Legitimate ! I should hope so. But 
what did you say to Creon ? I suppose you told 
him you were very sorry, but that it couldn't be 
helped. {She laughs.) Poor Glauce ! It's a shame 
to make a girl so ridiculous. 

Jason. I don't think you quite realise how 
seriously Creon regards the matter. 

Medea. I don't care an obol what he thinks. 
What I want to be told is how you told him what 
you think. 

Jason. Of course, I said that I felt highly 
flattered. 

Medea. But that you were married already. 

Jason. No, it was no use saying that, because 
— as I've already said twice — he does not think our 
marriage counts. 



178 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvii 

Medea. Then what did you say ? 

Jason. Oh, I said I would lay the matter 
before you, and trust to your great good sense. 

Medea. Do you mean to say that you did not 
give him to understand that the whole thing was 
altogether mad, absurd, and utterly preposterous ? 

Jason. How could I ? After all, he is the 
King ; and, moreover, he is backed up by all 
the legal and hieratic authorities. I could do 
nothing. I was quite helpless, quite defenceless. 
I simply had to incline myself before his higher 
authority. 

Medea. Oh, I see ; you accepted, in fact. 

[She reflects a moment, 

Jason. I didn't exactly accept. But what else 
could I do ? 

Medea. No, of course, it's quite simple. You 
said that our marriage didn't count ; you would be 
delighted to marry Glauce. 

Jason. I didn't use the word " delighted." 

Medea. " Highly honoured," perhaps ? 

Jason. Something like that. 

Medea. So you are engaged to be married ? 
( Without any irony in her voice) Well, I congratulate 
you. 

Jason. Not engaged. You see, the King 

Medea {^cheerfully), I know. You mean you 



XVII JASON AND MEDEA . 179 

are married to Glauce theoretically, and now you 
are going to make the marriage a reality. 

Jason {intensely relieved at there not being a 
scene). How clearly you put things ! 

Medea. I'm delighted for your sake. She's a 
charming girl, and I am sure she will make you 
very happy. 

Jason. But, Medea, what about you ? You 
quite understand that I am ready to give up the 
whole thing unless you are quite sure you don't 
mind ? 

Medea. My dear Jason, why should I mind ? 
My only wish is that you should be happy. 

Jason. I'm afraid that's impossible. I need 
hardly say I am not in the least in love with 
Glauce. 

Medea. Of course not. But what about my 
children ? 

Jason. Ah, there's the difficulty. The King 
says they will have to remain with me. But 
you will be able to come and see them whenever 
you like. 

Medea. Oh, I see. 

Jason. The King is very particular about 
children being brought up by their father. He 
thinks women make them into mollycoddles. 

Medea. Yes, of course. I suppose, since the 



i8o DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvii 

marriage ceremony has already been performed, you 
won't have to go through it again. 

Jason. It's unnecessary ; but I'm sorry to say 
the King wishes it. 

Medea. Then I suppose it will be soon. I 
shall leave Corinth as soon as my things can be 
packed. 

Jason. The King wants the ceremony to be 
this week ; but you mustn't inconvenience yourself 
in any way. 

Medea [smiling). No, I won't. Good-bye for 
the moment. I am going out to buy Glauce a 
present. \^She goes out, 

Jason sits down at a table and writes: 
Loveliest and dearest Glauce — It is all over. 
I have told her at last. She has taken it too 
wonderfully well. We must ask her to stay with 
us — later — etc. 

Curtain. 



XVIII 

KING ALFRED AND THE 
NEAT-HERD 

Scene. — Interior of a Neat-Herd's hut^ near the 
river Parret^ in Somersetshire. 

Enter a Neat-Herd, followed by King Alfred, 
who is miserably clad and shivering from cold ; 
he carries a bow and a few broken arrows, A 
log fire is burning smokily in a corner of the hut. 

The Neat-Herd {scratching the back of his 
head). Reckon t' old 'ooman 'uU be baack zoon. 

King Alfred. We are very hungry. 

The Neat-Herd. Reckon t' old 'ooman 'ull 
be baack zoon. She be a backing. 

\_The King sits down by the fire and warms 

himself. Enter the Neat- Herd's Wife 

with much noise and bustle; she carries a 

batch of newly-kneaded loaves on a tray^ which 

i8i 



1 82 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xviii 

she puts down in front of the fire. The 
Neat- Herd says something to her in an 
undertone; she mutters something in answer 
about " strange folk.^'* Then she goes up to 
the King. 
The Neat-Herd's Wife. If ye be a-staying 
here ye must make yournself useful. 

The King {rising and bowing politely). We 
should be delighted to do anything in our power. 

The Neat-Herd*s Wife {looking at the King 
with distrust^ and talking very quickly), Fze 
warrant ye be strange in these parts. {To her 
husband) I reckon we've no time to see after 
strange folk. We all be hungry, and it's a mercy 
we've still got a morsel of bread in the house to 
keep the children from ztark ztarving, and that's 
zo. But if he'll look to t' baatch whiles I zee to t' 
cows, maybe ee'll get a morsel for his pains. {To 
the King) Now do ee be zure, stranger, ye turn 
the baatch when they're done a one side. 

King Alfred ( who has only partially understood 
what she has said). We shall be delighted. {He 
bows.) 

The Neat-Herd's Wife {to her husbana), I 
reckon he do be daaft. 

The Neat -Herd. He's no daaft; he be 
strange. 



XVIII ALFRED AND THE NEAT-HERD 183 

The Neat-Herd's Wife. See ee turn the 
baStch. 

The Neat-Herd. Oo ! AR ! 
[The Neat-Herd*s Wife goes out and slams 

the door. 
[ The King sits again by the fire and begins to 
mend his broken arrows ; after a pause : 
King Alfred. Do you care for verse ? — 
poetry ? 

[ The Neat-Herd scratches the back of his head^ 
and after reflecting for some time : 
The Neat-Herd. Oo ! AR ! 
King Alfred. Then we w^ill repeat to you a 
few Httle things — mere trifles — we composed in the 
marshes during our leisure hours. {He looks 
pensively upwards.) 

There are clouds in the sky, 

I'm afraid it will rain. 
I cannot think why- 
There are clouds in the sky. 
Had I wings, I would fly- 
To the deserts of Spain. 
There are clouds in the sky, 
I'm afraid it will rain. 

The King. That is a triolet. 
The Neat-Herd. Oo ! AR ! 
The King. Here is another. It was written 
in dejection. 



i84 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xviii 

I've had nothing to eat 

For nearly two days. 
It's beginning to sleet, 
I've had nothing to eat ; 
Neither oatmeal nor wheat, 

Nor millet nor maize. 
I've had nothing to eat 

For nearly two days. 

That is also a triolet — perhaps not quite so success- 
ful. {He looks at the Neat-Herd inquiringly,) 
The Neat-Herd. Oo ! AR ! 
The King. We will now repeat to you a 
sonnet. It is adapted from Boethius. It is called 
" Suspiria." 

[^He passes his hand through his hair and looks 
upward towards the right, 

I used to sit upon an ivory chair, 
And wear a jewelled crown upon my head j 
Fine linen draped in folds my carven bed. 
With myrrh I used to smooth and scent my hair. 

I used to play upon a golden harp, 
And every one agreed I played it well ; 
The servants bounded when I rang the bell j 
I used to feed on immemorial carp. 

But now I wander in a pathless fen, 
Unkinged, forsook, discredited, discrowned ; 
I who was born to be the King of Men, 
I who made armies tremble when I frowned, 

I — in a neat-herd's damp and draughty hut — 
Perform the menial duties of a slut. 



xvin ALFRED AND THE NEAT-HERD 185 

Do you think the last rhyme weak ? {The Neat- 
Herd does not answer.) We have also written a 
ballade, but we cannot remember all of it. It is 
addressed to Guthrum, King of the Danes. The 
Envoi^ however, runs like this : 

Prince, you are having the time of your life, 
From the Straits of Dover to Glaston Tor, 
And writing it home to your Danish wife ; — 
But where are the bones and the hammer of Thor ? 

If we had a harp with us we would sing you the 
music, but we are sorry to say we lost it in the 
marsh yesterday. 

The Neat-Herd. Oo ! AR ! 

Enter the Neat-Herd's Wife 

The Neat-Herd's Wife. Be the baatch 
ready ? 

King Alfred. Oh yes, of course. We shall 
be delighted. 

[He hurriedly lifts the tray with the loaves from 
the hearth and places it on the table. 

The Neat-Herd's Wife. Drat th' man ! If 
they bain't all burnt ! Ye take strange folk to 
house, and aask un to mind the baatch and turn't, 
and draat un if they doan't forget to turn when 
they be burning. Ize warrant ye be ready enough 
to eat un when they be done ! Drat the man if I 



1 86 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xviii 

haven't half a mind to give un a beating w^ith th' 
rolling-pin ! Not a morsel shall ee get ; good-for- 
nothing, idle vagabond, wastrel, ramscullion, thief, 
robber. 

The Neat-Herd. Easy, old woman, ee be th' 
King ! 

The Neat-Herd's Wife. Well, and if that 
bain't like a man, to let me tongue run on not 
knowing nothing neither ! [Curtsying.) I'mzure 
I beg your Majesty's humble pardon, and I'm zure 
I knew nothing and meant no harm ; and my man 
be that foolish not to tell a body that the King's self 
be here, so homelike and all, taking pity on us poor 
folk. I'm zure as I meant no harm, and I do for to 
beg your Majesty's pardon, and that I do, an' right 
humbly. 

The King. Do not mention it. We assure you 
it is not of the slightest consequence. It was ex- 
ceedingly careless of us to burn your loaves — your 
admirably kneaded loaves. And we most humbly 
and sincerely apologise. We are, we are afraid, 
given to these fits, these sudden and unwarrantable 
fits of absent-mindedness. 

The Neat-Herd's Wife. And me always 
a-wanting to see a real Dane, too ! Only yester- 
day I zaid t' Mary, " Mary," I do zay, " the Danes 
be all over the country." "Lord a-mercy," she 



xvriii ALFRED AND THE NEAT-HERD 187 

zay, '' who be they ? " "I hain't zet eyes on one 
on un yet," zay I, " but folks do zay as they be 
mighty pleasant folk," zay I ; and now to have the 
King of the Danes himself in my hut. . . . Well, 
who'd a thought as zuch a thing would coom to me 
an' mine I 

The Neat-Herd. Ye be mistaken, ye be. 
He hain't the Danish King, he be t'other, he that 
wur th' King of England — bor ! Alfred as was — 

The Neat-Herd's Wife. What ? 

The Neat-Herd. Th' King o' England as 
was till th' Danes coom ower ! Alfred they called 
'un! 

The Neat-Herd's Wife. He as be driven 
away, like ? 

The Neat-Herd. Oo ! AR ! 

The Neat-Herd's Wife {to the King). Oh, 
you be he, be you ? Then ye ought to be ashamed 
of yoursel', that ye ought, coming into strange 
folk's houses at this time o' day, and begging for 
bread ; and then when they've pity on ye for your 
misery, and give ye the chance of turning an honest 
penny by a piece of work as mony a man'd be glad 
to get, and any child could ha' done better, forget- 
ting to turn th' loaves and spoiling th' whole baatch ; 
an' ye know well enow I can't baSke again this 
week — not that I mind th' baatch ; but I can't have 



1 88 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xviii 

ye here, nohow ! Ye'd best be a-going, and that 
quick ! Bor ! 

The King. But cannot you possibly let us 
remain here until to-morrow ? We are in need of 
shelter for the night. 

The Neat-Herd. Don't be too 'ard on him, 
old 'ooman. 

The Neat- Herd's Wife. Be ye daUft ? 
We'd ha' the Danish soldiers, th' archers, and th' 
whole Danish army here in no time for a-sheltering 
a traitor like, and a rubbul. I reckon we're honest 
folk, and loyal servants of the King, and we bain't 
be going to shelter any gurt rubbul here. I'ze 
brought up to be loyal j I'ze warrant I'm a loyal 
servant till I do die. No rubbuls here. Out ye 
go, ye scurvy traitor, and that quick, ye knave, 
or else I'll bring my rolling-pin to ye ! Not that 
I grudge ye a morsel. There, ye may take one 
of them burnt cakes with ye, that ye may, and 
enjoy it, too. And now out with ye, avoor one o' 
th' neighbours caatch a sight on ye. Out, do ye 
'ear me ! out ! 

The King (sighing). Very well, we are going. 
(To himself) Nothing fails like failure, but perhaps 
a time will come. {He goes out peevishly^ biting his 
nails.) 

Curtain. 



XIX 

ROSAMUND AND ELEANOR 

Scene. — A room in Rosamund's house^ " The Laby- 
rinth^'* Woodstock. Discovered: Rosamund 
[playing a harp) and Margery. It is night. 

Margery. There's a lady wishes to see you, 
milady. 

Rosamund. A lady ! How can she have 
found her way through the Labyrinth ? You 
know that I'm not at home to any visitors. [She 
throws down her harp.) 

Margery. She said she wished to see your 
ladyship very particular. 

Rosamund. Who is she ? 

Margery. She didn't give any name, but she 
said that it was something about fortune-telling. 

Rosamund. Oh ! she's the fortune-teller I 
heard about — the gipsy. 

189 



190 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xix 

Margery. She's not that sort, milady. 

Rosamund. Do you mean she's a lady ? 

Margery. She's dressed poor — but 

Rosamund. What ? 

Margery. Well, milady, I thought she had 
come to beg, what with her poor clothes j but 
when I said as you were not at home to visitors, 
she ordered me about like, so rough, that I saw at 
once she was a real lady ; and then her shoes are 
beautiful, I'm sure, the best red velvet. 

Rosamund [pensively). I promised Henry not 
to see any one — but then once can't matter — and I 
do so want to have my fortune told. [Abruptly) 
Show her in. [Exit Margery.) After all, Henry 
never need know. And I don't see why I should 
never see a soul. I am becoming quite rusty for 
want of human society. Besides, Henry promised 
to let me have my fortune told. 

Enter Margery and Queen Eleanor. Queen 
Eleanor is a commanding - looking woman^ 
shabbily dressed. Margery withdraws 

Rosamund [rising shyly). How do you do ? 

Eleanor. Please sit down. I will sit down 
too. [They both sit down.) You have got a beauti- 
ful house. 



XIX ROSAMUND AND ELEANOR 191 

Rosamund. Yes, isn't it nice ? Mavis built it. 

Eleanor. Mavis ! Really ? I've alw^ays con- 
sidered him too extravagant for me. 

Rosamund. You ought to come in the day- 
time and see the garden. The roses are beautiful 
this year. I beg your pardon, but I didn't quite 
catch your name. 

Eleanor. Never mind about my name. I've 
come to talk business. Hov^r long have you been 
living here ? 

Rosamund. Let me see, v^^e — I mean I — got 
in on Lady Day. But aren't you going to tell my 
fortune ? 

Eleanor. So you do w^ish your fortune told ? 

Rosamund. Oh yes, please tell it me if you 
can. 

Eleanor. All in good time. 

Rosamund. But before you do, you w^on't be 
offended, I'm sure, if I ask you how^ you found 
your way through the Labyrinth ? 

Eleanor. Fortune-tellers know that kind of 
thing by instinct. 

Rosamund [greatly interested). Really ? Then 
you must tell me who is going to be champion at 
the Winchester Tournament, and whether {she 
hesitates) 

Eleanor. What ? 



192 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xix 

Rosamund — Oh ! Nothing. How do you tell 
one's fortune ? By looking at the hand or in a 
crystal ? 

Eleanor. I will look in your hand first. Show 
it me. No ; the left hand first, please. (Rosamund 
gives her her left hand.) Yours is a most interesting 
hand. The Mountain of the Moon is strongly 
developed. 

Rosamund. Oh ! How interesting ! What 
does that mean ? 

Eleanor. It means that you have a warm, 
affectionate nature. 

Rosamund. That's true. 

Eleanor. You had several illnesses when you 
were a child. 

Rosamund. Yes ; I had whooping-cough when 
I was four, measles when I was seven, and scarlatina 
when I was nine. 

Eleanor. Exactly. You have more intuition 
than judgment ; your first instincts are true, but 
you are inclined to let them be overruled by your 
second thoughts. 

Rosamund. That's perfectly true. 

Eleanor. You are very generous, but inclined 
to be extravagant in dress. You are fond of 
luxury, devoted to flowers, and you like soft stufi^s. 
You are fond of music, but you have more taste 



XIX ROSAMUND AND ELEANOR 193 

than actual skill. You are quick-tempered, but 
not resentful ; you are gentle, modest, and unassum- 
ing, but inclined to be obstinate, if you are driven 
beyond a certain point. 

Rosamund. It's too wonderful ! 

Eleanor. The Mountain of Jupiter is highly 
developed ; Saturn fair, and Mercury almost im- 
perceptible. That means you are ambitious but 
easy-going, rather lazy, and most careless about 
money matters. 

Rosamund. It's like second sight. 

Eleanor. You have had one great love affair 
in your life. {She pauses.) 

Rosamund. Do go on. 

Eleanor. The man you love is tall ; he has 
red hair, almost the colour of a ruby, and a violent 
temper. He is impulsive, and often does things on 
the spur of the moment which he regrets bitterly 
afterwards. 

Rosamund. Yes, yes. 

Eleanor. He is a powerful man. He holds a 
position of great importance in the State. 

Rosamund. And will he love me for ever and 
ever ? 

Eleanor. You have a double line of life, and 
it is marked with a star. 

Rosamund. What does that mean ? 

o 



194 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xix 

Eleanor. It means that the man you love is 
threatened with a great disaster. 

Rosamund. Oh ! How dreadful ! Is there 
no means by which it can be averted ? 

Eleanor. There is one way. 

Rosamund. What is it ? Tell me quickly. 

Eleanor [solemnly). By an act of willing self- 
sacrifice on your part. That is to say, by your 
death — self-inflicted, of course. If you give up 
your life you will save your lover's. 

Rosamund. Oh ! 

Eleanor. And you will go down to posterity 
as a devoted woman — a heroine. 

Rosamund. Oh ! 

Eleanor. But unless you perform this act of 
self-sacrifice at once, it will be too late. The 
danger is imminent. 

Rosamund. What kind of danger is it ? 

Eleanor. On that point the stars are reticent. 

Rosamund. But tell me more about the — 
about him. 

Eleanor. About whom ? 

Rosamund. The man with ruby hair. Is he 
married ? 

Eleanor. Yes, and hence the trouble. He is 
married to a high-born, noble, unselfish, generous, 
gifted, and beautiful woman — a paragon. But I 



XIX ROSAMUND AND ELEANOR 195 

am sorry to say, he has for a brief moment proved 
faithless to her in thought — it is only a temporary 
whim, of course ; but even a passing infidelity — 
even though it be only an infidelity in thought — 
is at once visited by a just retribution. It is 
because of the infidelity that he is now meditating, 
that the vengeance of the stars pursues him, and 
that danger threatens. 

Rosamund. It's not true ! His wife is horrible. 
She has driven him away by her cold, callous 
conduct. She's a scold. She bullies him. She 
nags at him from morning till night. Besides 
which she's very, very ugly, and dresses like a 
scarecrow. 

Eleanor. How dare you talk like that to me ! 
On your knees, wretched minx ! 

Rosamund. I don't believe you're a fortune- 
teller at all. I don't believe you know anything 
about it. 

Eleanor. You are right. I am no fortune- 
teller. I am the Queen. My name is Eleanor. 

Rosamund. Oh dear ! You've no business to 
come here. This is my house. 

Eleanor. Your house, indeed ! However, I 
have not come here to waste my time. I have 
come, as I said before, on business. Here is a 
dagger, and here in this vial is an effective but 



iq6 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xix 

entirely painless poison. I give you two minutes 
to choose which way you will take. 

\_She places the vial and the dagger on a small 
table. 

Rosamund {crying). Oh ! Go ! You frighten 
me. 

Eleanor. Now, do you hear what I say ? 
Two minutes. 

Rosamund [kneeling and sobbing). I can't. Oh, 
please spare me ! I will do anything ; I will go 
away — anywhere — to a nunnery ; but please spare 
me. 

Eleanor {with tragic grimness). One minute 
and a half. 

Rosamund. Oh, Fm so young ! I'm sure I 
never meant any harm. Spare my life. Have 
mercy ! 

Eleanor. One minute. 

Rosamund. Oh, you are cruel ! I'm so 
young. Think what it is to be young. 

Eleanor. The time has elapsed. Now, which 
is it to be ? 

Rosamund {rising and drying her eyes). After 
all, why should I ? {She takes the dagger and the 
vial and throws them on to the floor.) I won't take 
either. So there ! You can do your worst. {She 
calls) Here, Margery ! Rosalie ! Topaz ! Anselm ! 



XIX ROSAMUND AND ELEANOR 197 

Richard ! Thomas ! Quick ! Help ! Murder ! 

{Margery and a bevy of servants rush into the room 

with torches and staves.) This fortune-teller has 

insulted me ! Turn her out of the house at once ! 

Eleanor. How dare you ! I'm the 

Rosamund. Quick! Quick! Turn her out. 

She's tried to poison me ! If you don't turn her 

out at once I'll tell the King 

[ The servants turn out Queen Eleanor, who 
struggles violently, 
Rosamund. Mind, Margery, if there should be 

any other visitors, I'm not at home. 

Curtain. 



XX 

ARIADNE IN NAXOS 

Scene. — A room in Ariadne's house at Naxos. 
Discovered: Ariadne and CEnone, her 
attendant, 

Ariadne. When Theseus comes, show him in 
here directly. I am expecting Dionysus in half an 
hour. If he comes sooner, which he probably will 
do, don't announce him, but show him into the 
dining-room, and then come in here and make up 
the fire so that I may know he's there. You quite 
understand ? 

CEnone. Yes, perfectly. 

Ariadne. There is Theseus walking up the 
drive. Go and let him in quickly. 

[CEnone goes out, 

[Ariadne arranges herself by a spinning-wheel^ 

near a fire where myrtle-twigs are burning^ in 

an attitude of simple^ brave^ and unaffected 

198 



XX ARIADNE IN NAXOS 199 

dejection. She rubs her eyes with a silken 
scarf to make them appear red. 



Enter Theseus 

Ariadne [smiling bravely). It's wonderful of 
you to be so punctual. 

Theseus. Yes, I 

Ariadne. Sit down here. Or do you mind 
the fire ? 

Theseus. No, I assure you. 

Ariadne. Are you quite sure you don't mind 
the fire ? 

Theseus. I like it, really. 

Ariadne. Perhaps you would like a screen ? 

Theseus. No, I promise you. 

[Ariadne rings a small silver hand-bell. 

No, please don't ring. 

Enter CEnone 

Ariadne. You may just as well have the 
screen. It's there. CEnone, will you please bring 
a screen for the Duke ? The fire's so hot. 

[CEnone goes out. 

Ariadne. Would you like a little wine ? 

Theseus. No, thank you, really ^ I never drink 
wine in the morning. 



200 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xx 

Ariadne. There*s some in the next room, if 
you would like to have some. 

Enter CEnone, bringing a screen^ which she puts in 
front ^Theseus 

Theseus. Oh, thank you so much ! 

[CEnone goes out. 

Ariadne. Is that right for you ? 

Theseus. That's perfect ! [JVith nervous 
decision) I've come to tell you that I'm so sorry I 
was rude yesterday, and that of course I didn't 
mean 

Ariadne. When you get to Athens I want 
you to do something for me. Do you think you 
will have time ? Do you think you could possibly 
remember it ? It would be too heroic of you if you 
would. 

Theseus. Of course I would -, but 

Ariadne. It's the most tiresome commission 
... I want you to send me two pounds of Hymet- 
tus honey. 

Theseus. But I really wasn't thinking of 

Ariadne. Will you have it sent by the next 
messenger, care of the King, to Crete, and then I 
shan't have to pay the duty ? 

Theseus. But really, Ariadne 

Ariadne. And you won't forget to give your 



XX ARIADNE IN NAXOS 201 

father a hundred messages from me, will you ? I 
hope they've packed the Minotaur's head properly. 
It would be a terrible tragedy if the horns were 
broken. 

Theseus. I haven't had anything packed yet. 
I really 

Ariadne. CEnone will help to pack for you. 
She's a wonderful packer. {She rings the bell.) She 
packs like an angel. 

Theseus. But my slave can do it ; besides, I 
really want 

Enter CEnone 

Ariadne. Oh, CEnone, I want you to go round 
to the Duke's house later — when the doctor comes 
— and help to pack the Duke's things; and at the 
same time you might see that the slaves pack the 
Minotaur's head properly. 

CEnone. Yes. \_She goes out. 

Theseus. Ariadne, I must really tell you. 

Ariadne. Let me think : you will get to 
Athens the day after to-morrow. You won't 
forget to let me hear what kind of a crossing you 
have. And you must take warm enough things 
with you. It's always quite bitter on board that ship. 
But of course you're a good sailor, aren't you ? 



202 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xx 

Theseus. I don't mind a long voyage, but 
sometimes just crossing the isthmus upsets me. 

Ariadne. I have got some w^onderful stufF 
iEsculapius gave me. It's quite harmless. You 
take one dose two hours before starting and one 
dose when you get on board ; then you lie down ; 
but you must eat nothing. It's wonderful. It's 
called Jsphodol. I like the name so much, don't 
you ? You had better have the Minotaur registered 
straight through to the Piraeus. Then you won't 
have any bother at the other ports with the Customs. 
If you do have any tiresome bother, you can use 
my father's name ; I will give you the passport he 
had made out for us. I have scratched my name 
out, but that will not matter. I have always found 
them very civil in Greece. They let me bring in 
bushels of silk from Tyre. You must give my love 
to Hippolyta, if you see her. She's not been well 
lately. 

Theseus. Really ? 

Ariadne. No, poor darling ! I've been rather 
worried and anxious about her. She's been having 
that horrible neuritis again. I had a letter yesterday 
from Athens, saying that she had lost her buoyancy 
and had had to give up riding altogether ! Isn't it 
too terrible ? She was such an inspired rider, wasn't 
she ? with those hands and that unerring judgment. 



XX ARIADNE IN NAXOS 203 

I can't imagine anything more ironical and more 
tragic ; and they say she's so brave about it. She 
would be, of course. Don't you think people like 
that always surprise one by being a little better than 
their best in an emergency ? 

Theseus. Yes. 

Ariadne. Don't you think Hippolyta is the 
most straight and true character we have ever 
known ? 

Theseus {uncomfortable). Yes, yes 

Ariadne. And almost more beautiful than 
anybody ? 

Theseus. Yes, she is beautiful. 

Ariadne. I love her straightness of line, and 
her strong capable hands, and that magic cast in 
her left eye, which gives a kind of strangeness to 
her face, doesn't it ? 

Theseus. She is very good-looking. 

Ariadne. But don't you think much more 
than that ? Don't you put her almost higher than 
anybody for charm ? 

Theseus. I'd never thought about her like 
that. 

Ariadne. And then isn't she quite unlike any 
one else ? Doesn't one feel absolutely certain with 
her, like one does with a perfect chariot-driver ? 

Theseus. Yes, she has a very fine character. 



204 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xx 

Ariadne. Almost more than fine, isn't it ? 
Something rare. 

Theseus. But, Ariadne, I really must 

Ariadne. You needn't go yet. You've lots 
of time to pack. GEnone will help with the pack- 
ing. You don't sail till sunset, do you ? Because 
of the tide. I hope you've got the right pilot. 
The old man with one eye. He's too charming. 
He's my greatest friend. 

Theseus. Ariadne 

Ariadne. I shall watch you from the hill. I 
shan't come down to the quay because of the crowd 
— you might wave from the ship. You will be 
able to see me. I shall stand next to the clump of 
cypress-trees and watch the ship till she's out of 
sight. There's a new moon to-night, just as there 
was the first night you arrived at Crete. Do you 
remember how papa bored you by talking about 
astrology ? And you were so angelically kind to 
him and patient. You bore it so well. It was like 
you. I don't think you know how devoted papa is 
to you, and how much he will miss you. 

Theseus. Ariadne — please 

Ariadne. You won't forget to write and say 
whether the Minotaur arrives safely, will you ? 
Because papa will simply be longing to know, and 
he'd be miserable if anything went wrong. 



XX ARIADNE IN NAXOS 205 

Theseus [getting up and knocking down the 
screen in his agitation). Ariadne, I simply can't 
bear this any longer. I must speak. You must 
and shall hear me. The whole thing's a mistake — 
a nightmare. I swear I didn't mean a thing yester- 
day. It was too stupid of me to — to say — I mean 
I didn't mean — I mean I lost my temper — ^just like 
any one. Of course I didn't mean, really. 

Enter CEnone. She brings in a large bundle of fire- 
wood^ which she throws on to the hearth 

Ariadne [getting up). I'm afraid you oughtn't 
to stay another minute now, or else you will miss 
the ship — CEnone will go with you and help you to 
pack. Good-bye, Theseus. It's been too perfect, 
hasn't it ? I have loved it all so. You won't 
forget the honey, will you ? Two pounds. Now 
you'll really have to run — and I have got the doctor 
coming in one second. Good-bye, Theseus, and 
my best love to your father and to dear Hippolyta 
if you see her. CEnone, please go with the Duke. 
[Ariadne shakes hands with Theseus. 

Theseus. But, really 

Ariadne. I'm afraid I must fly. I hope you'll 
have a perfect crossing. 

Theseus [hopelessly). Good-bye, Ariadne 

[He goes out very sadly with CEnone L. As 



2o6 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xx 

soon as they are gone^ Ariadne gently opens a 
door R. and calls : Dionysus ! 

Enter Dionysus 

Dionysus. Has he gone ? 

Ariadne. Yes, at last, I think. Haven't I 
managed it too beautifully ? He was longing not to 
go away at all. 

Dionysus. When does he sail ? 

Ariadne. At sunset. Sit down. WeVe got 
millions of things to say, haven't we ? Do you 
mind the fire ? There's the screen there on the 
floor — if you do — 

Dionysus. No, I love it. 

Curtain. 



XXI 

VELASQUEZ AND THE "VENUS" 

Scene. — Velasquez's studio. Dona Sol, a beauti- 
ful dark-haired lady^ elaborately dressed in stiff 
farthingale^ is sitting for her portrait. Velas- 
quez is standing in front of an easel^ vehemently 
throwing paint on to the canvas with a large^ 
long brush. In the corner of the studio is an 
open virginal. 

Velasquez. Are you getting tired ? 

Dona Sol. No, I never get tired of sitting ; 
Fm so used to standing up at Court. 

Velasquez. Would you mind turning your 
head a shade to the left ? Yes, that's right. 

Dona Sol. You will be careful about the nose, 
won't you ? 

Velasquez. Ah ! you've a very wonderful 
nose from the painter's point of view. 
207 



2o8 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xxi 

Dona Sol. They always exaggerate my nose 
— and I do so hate exaggeration, don't you ? 

Velasquez {absently). Yes. 

Dona Sol. Shall I be able to see the picture 
to-day ? 

Velasquez. I think so. It's practically 
finished now. I have only got to finish that piece 
of lace on your left wrist. 

Dona Sol. Shan't you want another sit- 
ting ? 

Velasquez. No — I 

Dona Sol. But Donna Anna had a dozen 
sittings. 

Velasquez. But she's fair — I find fair people 
more difficult to paint. 

Dona Sol. I can't see what there was to paint 
in her at all. She's all bones. 

Velasquez. That's just it. I can't get that 
lace right. Do you mind if I play a tune on the 
virginal ? 

Dona Sol. No ; please do. 

[Velasquez goes to the virginal and plays a 
wild^ rhythmic dance. 

Dona Sol. Is that Moorish ? 

Velasquez. No. English. Quaint, isn't it ? 
It's what they call a Morris-dance. Isn't it 
charming ? 



XXI VELASQUEZ & THE "VENUS" 209 

Dona Sol. Yes. I love English music. It's 
so uncivilised and fresh. 

Velasquez. Yes, they are a wonderfully 
musical people. ( He breaks off in the middle of tune.) 
I've got it. [He runs to the canvas and jiings apiece 
of white paint on to it.) Ah, that's it. It's 
finished. 

Dona Sol. What, the whole picture ? 

Velasquez [with a sigh of relief). Yes, the 
whole picture. 

Dona Sol. May I look ? 

Velasquez. Certainly. 
[Dona Sol gets down from the platform and 
walks to the easel. 

Dona Sol. It's -wonderful, Velasquez ; quite 
wonderful. I like it enormously. You haven't 
quite finished the hands yet, have you ? 

Velasquez. Yes, I think the hands will do 
like that. You don't quite get the light where 
you're standing. If you come here you'll see 
better. 

Dona Sol [moving). I think it's wonderful. 
Only I should Hke the hands to be a Httle more 
distinct. The dress is beautiful, and so is the neck- 
lace. But you've made my blue ribbon look green. 

Velasquez. That's the sun on it. 

Dona Sol. But it isn't green. It's blue. 

p 



210 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xxi 

Look at it. No amount of sun will make this blue 
into green. 

Velasquez. You see, the sun was full on it 
yesterday. 

Dona Sol. I think it's all perfect, except the 
nose. My nose is tip-tilted, and you've given me a 
nose like a potato. You must alter that. I know 
my nose is difficult. 

Velasquez [slightly darkening a shadow on the 
face). Is that better ? 

Dona Sol. Yes, that's better. But it's still a 
little too heavy. You see, my nose is my best 
feature. I don't mind what you do to my hair and 
my mouth. I don't want to criticise. I never do 
criticise my own portraits. In fact, I think it's 
quite absurd for the sitter to criticise a picture. 
But I do think I'm a rather good judge of 
noses. Couldn't you make it just a shade more 
delicate ? 

Velasquez [giving the nose a touch with the 
brush). Is that better ? 

Dona Sol. Yes, that's better. I think that 
really is better. [A pause.) Don't you think you 
could make the eyebrows a little darker ? You've 
made them so faint. And then I think the hair 
ought to be a little brighter, and the expression a 
shade less severe. I don't think you've quite got 



XXI VELASQUEZ & THE "VENUS" 211 

my smile. I look cross. Of course I suppose I 
look like that sometimes — when everything goes 
wrong. Every one does look cross sometimes — but 
that's not what I usually look like. 

Velasquez {making a few imperceptible altera- 
tions). Is that better ? 

Dona Sol. Yes, that's much better. I think 
it's perfect. May I look at some of the other 
pictures ? 

[^She walks round the studio till she finds several 
canvases turned face backwards against a 
heavy piece of furniture. 

Velasquez. Let me help you. {He turns 
several pictures round.) 

Dona Sol. Ah, that's the King. It's quite 
excellent. And that's the dear old Admiral. It's 
exactly like him. Oh, and that's Dona Elvira — 
how like, but how cruel ! How could you do that ? 
Didn't she mind dreadfully ? And what a dear 
little girl ! That's not finished, I suppose ? Oh, and 
I do love that seapiece. It's a storm, I suppose ? 

Velasquez. I'm afraid it's meant to be a man 
riding in a field. It's just a study. 

Dona Sol. Of course it is. How stupid of 
me. I couldn't see properly. It's wonderful — 
quite wonderful. And what's that large picture on 
an easel over there with a curtain over it ? 



212 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xxi 

Velasquez. Oh, that's nothing. It's only a 
sketch — it's not finished. 

Dona Sol. Do let me see it. 

Velasquez. I'm afraid I can't, really. 

Dona Sol. But I insist on seeing it. I've 
been such a good sitter. Now I'm going to pull 
the curtain off. 

Velasquez. It's not my picture at all. It's 
not by me. It's by one of my pupils. It's by 
Mazo. 

Dona Sol. Then of course I can see it. {She 
pulls away the curtain^ revealing a picture of Venus 
looking into a glass.) Oh, but that's my head ! How 
dared you do such a thing ? No wonder you didn't 
want me to see it. Oh, how could you do such a 
thing ? 

Velasquez. But I assure you you're mistaken. 
In the first place, I never painted the picture. I 
never touched it. It's Mazo's work. And he did 
it out of his head. At least, he did it from a 
model. It's meant to be Eros and Psyche or 
Venus, I've forgotten which. 

Dona Sol. How could you put my head on 
such a hideous body ? I call it mean, odious, and 
cowardly, and quite unpardonable. I shall burn 
my picture. 

Velasquez. But, my dear lady, do listen to me 



XXI VELASQUEZ & THE "VENUS" 213 

for one moment. The picture's not my work. I 
flatter myself really that I can draw a little better 
than that. That's mere apprentice work. Just 
compare it with my pictures. I never use those 
hot reds and those dull, lifeless greys. Just compare 
it with the other pictures. 

Dona Sol {crying). How can I compare it with 
the others ? You've never dared paint any one else 
like that. 

Velasquez. And then the face in the glass is 
no more your face than it is mine. It's not the 
least like you. It's a model's face. Mazo may 
have got a hint, a suggestion, quite unconsciously 
from seeing my picture, but nothing more. He's 
never set eyes on you. 

Dona Sol. I don't believe it's by Mazo. I 
believe it's by you — or else you wouldn't have been 
so anxious for me not to see it. 

Velasquez. Well, I promise you that Mazo 
painted that picture from a model — a flower-girl. 
I saw him do it. But to satisfy you, he shall get 
another model and paint in a diflrerent face. 

Dona Sol. That's the least you can do. 

Velasquez. It shall be done to-day. Mazo's 
coming here this morning. 

Dona Sol. Will you promise me that the face 
will be quite^ quite different ? 



214 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xxi 

Velasquez. On my word of honour as a 
Spaniard and as a painter. 

Dona Sol [drying her eyes). Very well, I will 
forgive you — on one condition. 
Velasquez. What is it ? 
Dona Sol. That you will change the nose in 
my picture and make it less like a potato. 
Velasquez. Of course I will. 
Dona Sol. Very well then. Good-bye. I 
shall come back to-morrow morning and see — but, 
oh ! what a shame ! 

[Velasquez makes a low how and leads her out. 
He comes hack and^ opening a door into a room 
adjoining the studio^ he calls : Mazo ! 

Enter Mazo 

Velasquez. The " Venus " is by you. Do you 
hear me ? You painted it. And you must change 
the face. 

Mazo. I don't understand — change it in what 
way? 

Velasquez. You must change it altogether. 
Paint in any face you like. And you must say you 
painted the whole picture. Do it at once, and put 
your signature somewhere in the picture too. 

Mazo. But, master, it's one of your greatest 
triumphs. 



XXI VELASQUEZ & THE "VENUS '' 215 

Velasquez. I know that as well as you do — 
nevertheless, that picture must go to the King and 
be known to all the world as a Mazo, and not as a 
Velasquez. 

Curtain. 



XXII 

XANTIPPE AND SOCRATES 

Scene. — A room in Socrates' house, Xantippe is 
seated at tahle^ on which an unappetising meal^ 
consisting of figs^ parsley^ and some hashed goafs 
meat^ is spread. 

Enter Socrates 
Xantippe. You're twenty minutes late. 



Socrates. I'm sorry, I was kept 

Xantippe. Wasting your time as usual, I 
suppose, and bothering people with questions who 
have got something better to do than to listen to 
you. You can't think what a mistake you make by 
going on like that. You can't think how much 
people dislike it. If people enjoyed it, or admired 
it, I could understand the waste of time — but they 
don't. It only makes them angry. Everybody's 
saying so. 

Socrates. Who's everybody ? 
216 



XXII XANTIPPE AND SOCRATES 217 

Xantippe. There you are with your questions 
again. Please don't try to catch me out with those 
kind of tricks. Vm not a philosopher. I'm not a 
sophist. I know I'm not clever — I'm only a 
woman. But I do know the difference between 
right and wrong and black and white, and I don't 
think it's very kind of you, or very generous either, 
to be always throwing up my ignorance at me, and 
perpetually making me the butt of your sarcasm. 
Socrates. But I never said a word. 
Xantippe. Oh, please, don't try and wriggle 
out of it. We all know you're very good at that. 
I do hate that shuffling so. It's so cowardly. I do 
like a man one can trust — and depend on — who 
when he says Yes means Yes, and when he says 
No means No. 

Socrates. I'm sorry I spoke. 
Xantippe. I suppose that's what's called irony. 
I've no doubt it's very clever, but I'm afraid it's 
wasted on me. I should keep those remarks for the 
market-place and the gymnasia and the workshops. 
I've no doubt they'd be highly appreciated there by 
that clique of young men who do nothing but 
admire each other. I'm afraid I'm old-fashioned. 
I was brought up to think a man should treat his 
wife with decent civility, and try, even if he did 
think her stupid, not to be always showing it. 



2i8 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xxii 

Socrates. Have I by a word or hint ever sug- 
gested that you were stupid ? 

Xantippe. Ohj of course not — never. How- 
ever, we won't discuss that. We will change the 
subject, if you don't mind. 

Socrates. But really 

Xantippe [ignoring the interruption). Please 
give me your plate. I will help you to the goat. 

Socrates. None for me, thank you, to-day. 

Xantippe. Why not ? I suppose it's not 
good enough. I'm afraid I can't provide the food 
you get at your grand friends' houses, but I do think 
it's rather cruel of you to sneer at my poor humble 
efforts. 

Socrates. I promise you, Xantippe, nothing 
was farther from my thoughts. I'm not hungry. 
I've really got no appetite for meat to-day. I'll 
have some figs, if you don't mind. 

Xantippe. I suppose that's a new fad, not to 
eat meat. I assure you people talk quite enough 
about you as it is without your making yourself 
more peculiar. Only yesterday Chrysilla was talk- 
ing about your clothes. She asked if you made 
them dirty on purpose. She said the spots on the 
back couldn't have got there by accident. Every 
one notices it — every one says the same thing. Of 
course they think it's my fault. No doubt it's very 



XXII XANTIPPE AND SOCRATES 219 

amusing for people who don't mind attracting 
attention and who like being notorious ; . but it is 
rather hard on me. And when I hear people say- 
ing : " Poor Socrates ! it is such a shame that his 
wife looks after him so badly and doesn't even 
mend his sandals" — I admit I do feel rather hurt. 
However, that would never enter into your head. 
A philosopher hasn't time to think of other people. 
I suppose unselfishness doesn't form part of a 
sophist's training, does it ? 

[Socrates says nothing^ but eats first one fig and 
then another. 

Xantippe. I think you might at least answer 
when you're spoken to. I am far from expecting 
you to treat me with consideration or respect ; but 
I do expect ordinary civility. 

[Socrates goes on eating figs in silence. 

Xantippe. Oh, I see, you're going to sulk. 
First you browbeat, then you're satirical. Then 
you sneer at the food, and then you sulk. 

Socrates. I never said a word against the food. 

Xantippe. You never said a word against the 
food. You only kept me waiting nearly half an 
hour for dinner — not that that was anything new 
— I'm sure I ought to be used to that by now — and 
you only refused to look at the dish which I had 
taken pains to cook with my own hands for you. 



220 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xxii 

Socrates. All I said was I wasn't hungry — 
that I had no appetite for meat. 

Xantippe. YouVe eaten all the figs. You've 
got quite an appetite for that. 

Socrates. That's different. 

Xantippe. Oh, that's different, is it ? One 
can be hungry enough to eat all the fruit there is in 
the house, which I was especially keeping for this 
evening, but not hungry enough to touch a piece of 
meat. I suppose that's algebra. 

Socrates. You know I very rarely eat meat. 

Xantippe. Really ? I hadn't noticed it. I 
always hear of your eating meat in other people's 
houses J but my poor cooking is not good enough 
for you. I'm sorry, but I can't afford those spicy, 
messy dishes. If I had a husband who had a real 
profession, and worked, and did something useful to 
earn his living and support his house and home, it 
would be different ; only I think the least you could 
do is not to sneer at one when one is only trying to 
do one's best. 

Socrates. I very rarely eat meat anywhere 
now. 

Xantippe. That's why you're looking so ill. 
All the doctors say it's a mistake. Some people can 
do without meat. They don't need it — but a man 
who works with his brain like you do ought to eat 



XXII XANTIPPE AND SOCRATES 221 

nourishing food. You ought to force yourself to 
eat meat, even if you don't feel inclined to. 

Socrates. I thought you said just now that I 
did nothing. 

Xantippe. There you are, cross-examining 
me like a lawyer, and tripping me up. IVe no 
doubt it*s very amusing for a professional philoso- 
pher to catch out a poor ignorant woman like me. 
It's a pity your audience isn't here. They would 
enjoy it. However, I'm afraid I'm not impressed. 
You can twist my words into anything you like. 
You can prove I meant black when I said white, 
but you know perfectly well what I mean. You 
know as well as I do that your eccentricity has 
made you thoroughly unpopular. And what I say 
is, it's just these little things that matter. Now 
do put all that nonsense away and have some 
goat. 

Socrates. No, thank you. I really can't. 

Xantippe. It's excellent goat, and there's some 
garlic in the sauce. I hate garlic, and it's there 
on purpose for you 

Socrates. Oh! 

Xantippe. Give me your plate. 

Socrates. I'd really rather not. 

Xantippe. It would do you all the good in the 
world. 



222 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xxii 

Socrates. But I've had quite enough. I've 
finished. 

Xantippe. I suppose you had dinner before 
you came here, or you're going to have dinner 
somev^rhere else presently. 

Socrates. I haven't touched food since I left 
the house. 

Xantippe. Then it's quite ridiculous your not 
eating. Let me give you some goat at once. 

Socrates. I couldn't, really. Besides, I must 
go in a minute. 

Xantippe. There ! I knevir it ! You're 
going out to dinner. 

Socrates. You are mistaken, Xantippe. 

Xantippe. You'd far better tell me the truth 
at once. I'm quite certain to find it out sooner or 
later. You can't think hov\7 foolish it is to tell lies 
and then be found out afterwards. You can't 
think how much a woman despises a man for that 
— you couldn't do anything more foolish. 

Socrates. I promise you by all the gods that 
I'm not going to dine elsewhere. 

Xantippe. I suppose you don't expect me to 
fall into that trap ! Swearing by all the gods, 
when every one in Athens knows you are a pro- 
fessed atheist — when you do nothing but mock the 
gods from morning till night — and, what's far 



XXII XANTIPPE AND SOCRATES 223 

worse, make other people mock them too ; when I 
scarcely like to have a slave in the house because of 
your impiety — and your blasphemy. 

Socrates. I really think you are rather unfair, 
Xantippe. You will be sorry for this some day. 

Xantippe. Then may I ask where you are 
going ? 

Socrates. I've got an important engagement. 

Xantippe. And with whom ? 

Socrates. I would rather not say, for your sake. 

Xantippe. That's very clever and ingenious 
to put it on me. But I'm tired of being bullied. 
Even a worm will turn, and I demand to be treated 
just for once like a human being, and with the 
minimum of courtesy and frankness. I don't ask 
for your confidence, I know that would be useless. 
But I do ask to be treated with a grain of straight- 
forwardness and honesty. I insist upon it. I have 
borne your sneers, your sarcasm, and your sulkiness, 
your irritability, your withering silence, quite long 
enough. I will not put up with it any longer. 

Socrates. Very well. Since you will have it, 
I have been impeached by Lycon, Meletus, and 
Anytus on some ridiculous charge, the result of 
which, however, may be extremely serious — in fact, 
it may be a matter of life or death — and I am 
obliged to appear before them at once. 



224 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xxii 

Xantippe. Oh dear, oh dear ! I always said 
so. I knew it would come to this ! This is what 
comes of not eating meat Hke a decent citizen ! 

[Xantippe bursts into tears. 

Curtain. 



THE END 



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